Being in my seventh decade on this planet, I've seen quite a few folks---many of them relatives, loved ones and very close friends---swoop the scene (as Lord Buckley would put it) and exit the planet before me. The longer I live, the more this will happen. Well, until it's my turn to leave. Then, those that remain will be ruminating on my leaving....maybe.
A great line from one of George Carlin's books, found in a "top 100" list, was the thought that "there are people on this Earth who really don't like you." A hard pill for ego-driven people (who would that exclude?) to choke down, but one that I have found myself able to swallow. I happen to like me, and that's enough for me at this point. That might sound like I'm lonely, or alone, which I'm not. Truth be told, I have more than just a handful of loved ones and close friends; more than I can count using all my fingers. Maybe no toes are needed. I haven't sat down to really tally it all up, but off the top of my head that's what I come up with. I have to guess that more than a few will cogitate on my passing, when I leave them. It doesn't matter much.
Recently, I was out in the sun where I can see a lot better, even without my reading specs. I was sitting in a quiet setting, drinking some tea and just 'grooving', as we aged flower-children used to say. Anyhow, I had a very vivid flashback, of a time in my very early youth---perhaps single-digit age---where I was looking at my Grandma's hand and noticing that her skin was not like mine. It was more translucent, and waxy looking. The veins in her hand had also migrated to just under the skin, unlike my youthful flesh. The image was pretty vivid in my recollection, and when I sat the other day---looking at my own hands in the bright sunlight---I noticed that they now resemble those of 'Gramma'. What an odd awakening.
So, I guess it should come as no surprise that I just heard that a dear friend, who is only one year my junior, was just diagnosed with lymph cancer that has apparently traveled to his brain. The outlook is grim. Doctors, of course, will be more than happy to do all the ugly stuff that we all know they do in these cases, but they offer a slim chance of my friend surviving even a handful of years. If I'm still in shock, how must he feel?
"Nobody gets out alive" becomes more and more true for me, as the months pass. In just the last year, I have said goodbye to a number of close friends; most of them either musical co-conspirators, or confidantes. This ain't getting any easier.
Not exactly in a funk, but pretty reflective at the moment.
A great line from one of George Carlin's books, found in a "top 100" list, was the thought that "there are people on this Earth who really don't like you." A hard pill for ego-driven people (who would that exclude?) to choke down, but one that I have found myself able to swallow. I happen to like me, and that's enough for me at this point. That might sound like I'm lonely, or alone, which I'm not. Truth be told, I have more than just a handful of loved ones and close friends; more than I can count using all my fingers. Maybe no toes are needed. I haven't sat down to really tally it all up, but off the top of my head that's what I come up with. I have to guess that more than a few will cogitate on my passing, when I leave them. It doesn't matter much.
Recently, I was out in the sun where I can see a lot better, even without my reading specs. I was sitting in a quiet setting, drinking some tea and just 'grooving', as we aged flower-children used to say. Anyhow, I had a very vivid flashback, of a time in my very early youth---perhaps single-digit age---where I was looking at my Grandma's hand and noticing that her skin was not like mine. It was more translucent, and waxy looking. The veins in her hand had also migrated to just under the skin, unlike my youthful flesh. The image was pretty vivid in my recollection, and when I sat the other day---looking at my own hands in the bright sunlight---I noticed that they now resemble those of 'Gramma'. What an odd awakening.
So, I guess it should come as no surprise that I just heard that a dear friend, who is only one year my junior, was just diagnosed with lymph cancer that has apparently traveled to his brain. The outlook is grim. Doctors, of course, will be more than happy to do all the ugly stuff that we all know they do in these cases, but they offer a slim chance of my friend surviving even a handful of years. If I'm still in shock, how must he feel?
"Nobody gets out alive" becomes more and more true for me, as the months pass. In just the last year, I have said goodbye to a number of close friends; most of them either musical co-conspirators, or confidantes. This ain't getting any easier.
Not exactly in a funk, but pretty reflective at the moment.
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