I suppose it is inevitable. Reflecting on the ‘where I’m at’ in my life, assessing. Is it a late mid life crisis? Could be. But it could also be having gone through the loss of my second brother two years ago and the recent loss of my mom four months ago. Causes one to pause. Maybe take stock of the length of runway that’s left me before hitting the gate. I’m coming to terms with a few things. Adjust the reading glasses, pencil poised, hovering over a yellow(ed) scribbler. Tick, tick, and…tick, no erase that.
Speed of life races by at the rate of ones age, the saying goes. Is my life going at 61 miles per hour, or 61 kilometres an hour? I live in Canada where metric is standard, so, lucky me. 61 kilometres per hour is 37.9 mph. Which is better than 61 mph which would convert to 98 km.
ok, nice try.
I think about my fast expiring aspirations and diminishing dreams, and, like shaking off a stupor, make a mad grab at them before they vaporize into the ether. I think about all those rosy, soft edged hours that basked in the languid stretch of my youth, time enough for becoming or accomplishing, for figuring out who I am and what I wanted to do with my life.
Glaring back at me, the not a few great opportunities I let pass by over these sixty years. That I have made some face-palming-stupid decisions or wrong turns is a mad under statement.
And why is it the regretted ones that slipped the net then come back at you, get all in your face like a bully, block out the good stuff? Anyway I did some good stuff. But damn it’s true – it’s always the one (s) that got away that gets the sighing “if only.”
On the upside, I’ve come to terms with my limits. So that’s a time saver. I know I won’t run off on some tangent of an idea, like ‘I’m gonna open a bakery- slash-cookbook store-slash art gallery in Todos Santos!” I can rein that in.
I’ve also attained some insight into how I’ve limited myself over the years. That one stings a bit. A lot.
I’ve come to terms that I don’t like vigorous exercise. Like running.
Age has never been an issue for me, and it isn’t now- necessarily. In fact today I am the youngest I will ever be! But it doesn’t sooth the fact that those dreams and aspirations of mine now have a shorter runway for getting airborne. They have a greater risk of calcifying right where they lay. Some would staunchly defend the case that after 60 (50,40) ones “bloom” has quite long ago balled up into a dust bunny now sequestered under the couch.
I beg to differ. Can’t I? I think I’m in fair company, taking as my mentors women who are striding forward, eyes forward, enthusiastic, engaged, age defying in the purest sense; their soul youthful. There are a lot more of these women to hook my wagon to than in my moms generation.
I am aging (stupid statement- me and every living thing on the planet), but we all know its better than the alternative. And I swear I still feel like 40. Ok 45. (refer to above re: age/kilometre, see? It’s accurate.) But, I must come to terms with the fact that really, if I’m lucky, I may have 15-25 GOOD years left IF my health holds up.
I think I’m pretty healthy.
It’s sobering. I’ve come to terms that this, right now, may be as good as it gets, which is pretty damn good, and to keep embracing with full gratitude what I have in my life and who I’m spending that life with. I know now too that everything comes down to choices. Having had so much experience in making some clunkers has honed my skills. I know better. (Jeez, finally.)
My choice is to continue to get on with those dreams and aspirations no matter how long or short the runway, water my flowers and nurture the blooms, all the while shouting out the incidental wise words of Yogi Berra : “It ain’t over till it’s over!”