I sense that I am dying, from I know not what.
I read stories of young women dead at 23 in hiking accidents, in life accidents, blasted away quietly in crazy-making ironies.
I see yellow baloon Facebook posts for a two-year-old taken from her mother a year ago in her sleep, silently and violently.
I sense that I am dying, and it’s true.
It’s true, and yet we’re called to “rage rage” against it, to ignore, to retaliate to act as if.
As if this isn’t the case.
As if we’re not.
The time unknown. The when. And thank God for that. But the wondering gets at me sometimes. . . today, tomorrow, at eighty-five when my home of knick-knacks has been whittled to an apartment and “a community” by design?
I wonder at what I’m doing with this life energy, with these hands not quite yet wrinkled.
I can’t decide most days if it’s an extreme burden or a blessed lightness.
But I can choose.
I can’t choose what’s true, but I can choose the lens through which I see it.
Those who did great things did so by steady drip drip drip. Tenacious and faithful movements over time, of believing that today I will create life, for this day I will not die, and God willing, tomorrow neither. The bold ones, the movers and shakers, the love-ya with gooey mac and cheese ones, their daily courage sits, compounded, somehow ready for us to take our own helping–not taking from others, but what is ours–to dare too we too might leave a mark, leave a difference, impact just one.
I wonder at my drips.
I wonder if they are wearing away at the right cleft of stone, hewn just for me, or if I’m dripping somewhere wrong, wearing clicky shoes when flats get their faster, better, in a way somehow more me.
I wonder at me. . . and than wonder at that tendency and wish I wondered more at others, turned out.
I sense that I am dying, but for today I sit here open, catching a poem before it sprints by and is gone.
It is in the catching, the being open, the stopping, the breathing, the living, the loving, the giving and connecting, and the laughing at the CAPITAL LETTERS in that e-mail or at the the chunkiness of the bottom inch of that dragon-breath coffee that we hold the dying at bay.
If only for today. Pure gift.