I’m sure I would have pondered this all, sooner or later. In fact, I’ve pondered it already–thought I was done with it in my early twenties, at least for another twenty years or so. But this has been no ordinary year.
A family member died and left us reeling with awful surprise. And before that, I had a stroke, equally shocking. These two events have sent me on a new trajectory of thought and philosophy, one that has enlightened me as much as it has sucked all the energy from my body.
I am still, physically and emotionally, recovering from the stroke and from the death.
I could consider myself halfway through a life, but that may not be the case. I could die tomorrow. You could die tomorrow. There is no guarantee of life until a ripe old age.
And so one thing I’m hyper aware of, is that every moment counts so much. Because this very moment might be a larger chunk of your life than you might think. Tomorrow, a clot could travel into your brain and shut you off forever. Or your car might lose control and drive you off a cliff. Or a bullet could travel into your heart. A bomb might fall out of the sky.
I am not sure what I will become. I am not sure what this will all mean to me. I have a feeling, a sense of the ounce of it but I don’t know its whole.
In fact, every moment of life weighs so heavy, as I try to squeeze its meaning. But what then? What to do? What is the meaning of a life, of half a life? What have I done today? What is meaningful enough?
I stop writing now–my hubby is trying to converse with me–and my mind is closing up to this well of thinking. It is time now to talk about dinner and about the day and all the things that will shut out this line of thought, this line that makes me wonder about so much, question so much, and burrow into my solitary.