I’ll start with another exquisite poem.
SELF-PORTRAIT
by Mary Oliver
I wish I was twenty and in love with life
and still full of beans.
Onward, old legs!
There are the long, pale dunes; on the other side
the roses are blooming and finding their labor
no adversity to the spirit.
Upward, old legs! There are the roses, and there is the sea
shining like a song, like a body
I want to touch
though I’m not twenty
and won’t be again but ah! seventy. And still
in love with life. And still
full of beans.
My wife thinks I talk only about death.
I’m not sure.
It’s a big part of my repertoire now — not that I’m selling anything.
Why is that?
What, the death fascination?
Because it’s a manifest antidote to our addiction to living up to our potential, comfort and being all you can be.
Of course, we shouldn’t need anything to decompress from the dominant narrative but save for the extremis that comes with loss and grief, what else is there?
No one thinks about their death when they’re driven to succeed.
That’s for chumps.
I’m on a mission.
Life is to be squeezed dry.
Endings.
Who the hell wants to talk about those less still consider what it might mean to go to bed tonight and not wake up tomorrow?
It’s all so depressing, right?
Not for me.
In fact, you might say it’s the only thing that keeps me sane knowing that it could end at any stage.
That doesn’t mean I live my life on the ragged edge. Instead, it roots me to my ancestors, my locus and a closeness to nature.
In the end, though, my journey is mine and mine alone. If the merest mention of death depresses you, then so be it.
So be it.
Have a wonderful Sunday.
Photo by Ramiro Pianarosa on Unsplash