The other night, my Mom and I were chatting on the phone. We talked of many things (there's a lot going on right now) and then, just parenthetically, she said "oh yes, and I'm reading your blog".
I felt like I'd been caught with my pants down.
My MOM was reading my blog. Not some complete stranger in Timbuktu but my MOTHER, who birthed me, who probably knows most of this stuff anyway, if not consciously then just below the surface of cognition. It's really silly if you think about it. I am more concerned about my mother reading these basically inane, self-involved ramblings than complete strangers who I have no connection to at all.
I started to think about this a bit further. WHY was I so caught out? The more I thought, the less of an answer I have. I am fairly private about matters that effect others in my life so it's not as if I'm telling tales out of school about my family all over the internet.
I guess I'm just surprised, that's all ---- not that that emotion makes any sense either; my mother is a bright, inquisitive woman whose interests range widely. And because I'm her son, she follows my meandering on the internet fairly closely.
This blog is really just a shout out to my Mom, my biggest fan. I love you Mom, read away.
When you've got to go, you've got to go....
I've been thinking about death. Alot.
I think this comes from getting on the dark side of 40. My parents are aging, all around me senseless events seems to invade the lives of many people whom I care about. Death, violence, accident. Sometimes people die from these events, sometimes not. Always I feel the brush of what's coming.
While I can't control death, I can control my attitude toward it.
When I was a little boy, I was afraid of death. Like many children, I was afraid of the dark and all that it implies. I outgrew that point of view when I understood that the world existed beyond me, that everything I see is real, not simply a stage set constructed for my pleasure and edification. Since then, while not exactly happy about the idea of death --- I want to be here a good long time; there's great stuff to do; barbecues, sex, sunsets, hanging out with my nieces, music, theater, the list is endless --- I somehow have come to understand that my ceasing to exist as I am is not a tragedy of epic proportions.
I've come to feel that death is a process to be faced with humanity and compassion. I need, for my self-respect and the comfort of those I love, to be brave as I approach the dark.
I also know from my minimal dealings with the dying that there comes a point when the soul lets go. I saw it with my grandmother. I remember the moment; she chose to leave, to let go. Where she went is, your guess is as good as mine.
I once had a friend (who is now dead and gone) who said "life is for the living". I try to stick to this maxim to the best of my ability. I feel I didn't begin to fully live until I hit my early 40's. It feels of critical importance to me that I love the remaining time I have left. Since what comes next is a mystery, I stay focused on the now.
None of these thoughts are new to me. What is so striking to me is how similar all our thoughts are when we are faced with the ultimate unknown, "the undiscovered country" to coin a phrase.
