Long time no post

For someone who has always turned to writing (and has been told that she writes well) it's very, very hard to write regularly. There are always other things to do that seem more important. Like cleaning out years of "stuff" that's accumulated. Yet, when I do, I always find my writing - in the reports and memos from work long done, in the papers from my masters program, in the notes from the classes I've taught or designed but have yet to ever teach, and in little scraps and pages of ideas.

For a long time I've wondered exactly what it is that I'm here for; what exactly is my purpose? Today I came to a conclusion. If for no other reason, I'm here to write and to learn about things that interest me. I've long confused those things with the apparent higher purpose of the need to "do," as in "do a job." Er....like cleaning out the years of "stuff." Writing and learning are my purpose. Unfortunately, I've yet to figure out how to make a living at that. So it goes....

Maybe the last summer

I was talking to a friend today who has a serious, incurable illness. She has been fighting it for as long as I have known her and does so with a grace that I could only hope to emulate. Not to say there aren't bad times - or more precisely - times that are horrifically worse than others - but throughout it all she has maintained a focus on the here. The now. The possible for the day.

But today, for the first time, she talked about her impatience with others who don't have time to do things that are important to her. Not in a whiny, "I never get my way" way, but in a steady voice that matter-of-factly stated that she was aware that this might be her last summer and she didn't want to spend it mowing the lawn and doing other mundane things. She wanted to eat ice cream and walk on the beach and she didn't want to do it alone.

Yes, she said, she was aware that none of us know when our end will come, but with an illness the size of Texas always hovering nearby it's harder to kid yourself that you are immortal. She doesn't typically fixate on her mortality, but every day brings her closer to it. That conversation was a sobering reminder that "living" - however each of us defines what brings us joy - is the operative part of our life as we walk inevitably to the end of time.

Routine

When I was growing up I watched my mother who was born in the 10th year of the 20th Century, do the same thing every day. Probably much the same (with different specifics) as her mother before her.  My mother got up, fixed breakfast, worked around the house (cleaning, sewing, cooking), fixed lunch, worked around the house (cleaning, sewing, cooking), fixed dinner, sat in the living room watching TV and sewing, went to bed and repeated everything the next day. At least this is what it looked like to me - a routine occasionally punctuated with trips to the grocery, church, getting her hair done, visiting relatives or other things that bored me to death. Where was the excitement? Where was the newness? How could anyone possibly be happy with a routine life. And when I asked her about doing something novel, she'd say "later." Over time I stopped asking. She had made her choice.

Fast forward 40+ years and I find myself doing exactly what she did but with my own set of 21st Century activities. I can't easily visit relatives since they are all either deceased or disbursed around the country. And when something threatens to break my routine, I often say, "later." My routine is my meditation. I wonder if hers was too?