I live a full and active life. In fact, I’m probably more engaged than I’ve ever been, with faith that at least some of my ideas (here are three big ones) will play out in constructive ways over the coming years and decades.
But, at 78 (still a year younger than the current US president), I am also more mortal than ever, and I know it, especially since I figure at least a third of the guys I grew up with are now gone, or ahead of me in the checkout line.
My heart seems fine, but I’ve had an ablation to stop occasional atrial fibrillation. I take blood thinners to prevent another pulmonary embolism (I had a scary one in ’08, but none since). I have a bit of macular degeneration. My genetics are long on longevity (my paternal grandma lived to almost 108), but I have some risk factors as well. The main one, however, is plain old mortality. We’re here for the ride, but the ride ends. And I know that.
Here is another way to look at it: I’m a puppy, meaning I now have the life expectancy of a dog. If I’m a healthy rat dog, like a terrier, I might live to twenty.
So I’ll be devoting more of my bloggings to surfacing valuable lessons and stories left in my care by those now gone, and to making clearer what I’m bringing to generations after mine.
Here is one of the biggest lessons: life really is short. By design, we only get a few dozen years. My 78 went by fast. And each year goes by faster, since it’s a narrower slice of one’s pie of life.
Another way to look at it: Life is exceptional, and death is its most durable feature. Of the carbonate rocks that comprise a quarter of the Earth’s surface, most were once alive or close enough. The limestone in the henge above was living muck before it turned to rock.
My point is that we all need to get out of here. Still, I operate in willful oblivity to the inevitable, because that’s more fun and productive than worrying about it. And being an inveterate creature helps for doing that.
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