I worry about death and all the myriad details that
comprise my departure from this beautiful planet.
Do I worry about “death”, or “dying”? Of course. I’m not looking forward to dying; I can’t imagine the horror of struggling for that last breath. But do all living beings struggle for that last breath? My mother didn’t struggle to breathe at her death.
No. I don't really worry about death. I will have no control over the time or th circumstance. Rather, I worry about the myriad details that require living to the end. I've found physical aging is all they say it is, except "golden years." I saw a T-shirt in a catalog yesterday that said, "I can't believe I'm the same age as old people." Yes, I'm trapped in this body that is obviously deteriorating. And the word is "trapped"; not my word, but a very good one.
My worry: that this body may not carry me to the end in a manner acceptable to me. Every day I wake up sore and stiff. Now I take 5 prescriptive pills, whereas formerly I needed only an occasional antibiotic or a couple of Tylenol. I find myself staggering along. Can this be me? I straighten up as far as I can and rest my neck muscles by looking down. Ye gods, when did my hair get so thin?
But enough whining and lamentation. I still have my mind, or most of it anyway. I have more time to direct and develop my thoughts. Maybe it's time to live like the John Prine song, "... (to) live down deep within my head. Where long ago I made my bed ...." I think of the things I enjoy. There are so many good books yet to read; so many awesome winter sunrises to watch from behind the double glass doors, cozy in my warm house. So many good visits with my daughters and family, friends to share with, and delightful acquaintances yet to meet. Many more occasions to enjoy the antics of my animal family, my "pack". Time to feel and love the earth around me.
Are these blessings filled with enough joy to comprise "gold"? Then fill my years with them and I will try to walk forward with courage.
