Sometime between breath and death it hits us - someday there will be no more tomorrows.
Reflections - directions to your soul on what is really important. My daily pondering tends to go more and more to questioning what is worth it and what is not. All the days we take for granted - all the people, all the pets, all the events. We go to bed with our mind racing toward tomorrow. Plans - hope - futures - dreams. When we are young our mind never thinks there is an end of the road. We are flying as fast as we can to get to the next beacon - the next adventure - the next . . .
The last 10 years of fighting a disease - both realistically and otherwise has made me much more morose. Much more, defiant. Much more, half empty. The things I took for granted, the cement I built my daily plans on - were not just shaken - they were shattered.
I regret missing half of Portia's and Kashmir's lives and almost all of Bailey's to this disease. It is 10 years of a life with Ric I cannot get back. I am a bitter old woman about it. I fail to see the good in this lesson. I reject the notion that there is any good. But, had it not come along, would I have paid more attention to those daily details - or is it just something you hope you would have done?
When I was a child my favorite song was Peggy Lee singing "Is that all there is?". I see now, that it was prolific. Every time I lose someone, have a new pain, fail to get rid of an old one, that song dances through my mind. It seems quite obvious that this is not a "half full" kind of thought pattern.
I have a little sign in my room that says this is not the life I ordered - truth is I didn't order one. I am constantly amazed that so many people at such early ages KNOW with all their heart what they want to do, who they want to be, where they want to do it. Today I could not answer that except to say I want to keep looking. Searching. What is around the next hill. Maybe it will be that one thing I want to do more than anything. I never found my "calling". I have nested often but neither have I ever found "home".
We moved to Oklahoma City in 1968 - within the next year a tornado came through and dropped a wooden sign in our yard. It said "The Wanderer". For years I kept it and planned to put it on something - in my mind a gypsy wagon - and travel everywhere.
That too was prolific.
Portia is about 100 in cat years. She stares out the window and I wonder what she sees. I cry at the thought of her not being here after 20 years. I have checked that as I don't want that to be the last thing she remembers of me.Each morning I check to see if she will see me this day.
Reflections - promises we make to ourselves of how tomorrow we will do it different. The bucket list of promises never reached and never forgotten. Enough to fill many lifetimes of adventures and accomplishments, dreams and schemes. Perhaps like fear, reflection is an emotion of waste. Perhaps memories only cloud you from the ability to just live each day. Humans have come so far only to find the end of the road is in the same place it has always been - the last breath.