Mortality is this week’s theme, as in “touched by one’s own mortality.” I’ve never really taken my impending death for granted, something that will happen to us all. I come from the long-lived stock of humans, with both parental units descended from families who’ve lived in their nineties. I naturally assumed that I would follow their path.
And there’s the problem with living in the here-and-now: I will be ill-prepared when the tall dude with the scythe pounds on my door, though not totally surprised. There was a little door-tapping this week when my diabetes kicked into high gear, and it refuses to be controlled in the short-term, so the doctor will talk about long-term solutions Wednesday. In the interim, I have little to no energy to do much of anything except to sleep and burn leave hours at work. I know intellectually this sick time will end, but physically…well, I’m tired.
This post is not draw your pity or concern. I don’t want it, period. My problems are small compared to yours, and my problems are mine (though Cassidy Carson is stuck with them, too, for thirty-seven reasons). I’m not laying around the house doing the widow’s dance, wishing for lost time and missed opportunities gone by.
I’m using this downtime to practice writing. In the old days (last month), the room temperature, humidity, noise levels, and muses had to be in sync for words to fall onto the page. For now, I must pull the words out when internal and external conditions are less than optimal. In other words, plant and reap the garden when the fertilizer is waist deep.
Dear writer, if you are so lucky to live in your writing Eden, then squeeze every minute of creativity that you can. You are as young now as you are going to be for the rest of your life. Get to work and grind hard. You can do it. I got your back!