Waking with the sun at 5:43 am. Opening the shades. Making coffee. Letting the dog out. Sitting in a chair by the lake. Cold. Dewy. Birds calling. All of them flying northwest. One, two or four at a time. Then back inside to stretch. Pet the dog. Breathe with intent.
In the sunlight now, I see the wrinkles of my hand. How can the body change like this, without me?
This makes me get up. Right now. While writing this. To slather lotion on my hands, face, and neck. I can’t stop what’s happening, but I can convince myself that I’m delaying it.
It’s strange how the pace is picking up. I thought that as I aged it would slow, but it doesn’t. If anything, the days pass quicker now. I have much less control. My world is spinning and it’s hard for me most days to keep up. If I don’t try to stay moving, everything passes by without me. And I’m not ready to be alone.
Like this morning. At the cottage. A familiar orange sun rising over Grand Lake, but one unlike I’ve ever seen before. And one of the few I have left. How many sunrises will I see this year? Up early enough. Weather permitting. My mood just right.
People don’t think of these things. And I’d be better off doing the same. I don’t do it to be sad. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Recognizing that the my life is running out makes me happy. Despite my flaws, errors, misjudgments, and mistakes—all the bad I’ve put into the world—I believe that I’ve done, and do, well. I’m not volunteering at soup kitchens, signing petitions, or marching for a cause, but I’m doing my best to make good choices in my ever-so-small, seemingly inconsequential world. Little by little. And that adds up. To what, I’m not sure. But it has to mean something.
~ KJ
Leave a Reply