PROLOGUE

July 21 2012         

For those of you who might think, from recent posts, that I’m a morbid sad-sack 

(I do have my moments) we thought you might be amused, if not relieved, to view the video below. Joel has been making little iPhone videos to send to our 3 year old granddaughter – mainly of cows. But the other evening he thought it would be

fun to introduce her to our dearest friends here, neither of whom speak a word of English. So he rehearsed them for a couple of minutes to look into the camera and say, “Hello Sadie, I am Luana (or Gianni).”  Here is the result of their first English lesson and yes, that’s me on the ground in a puddle.      

EXIT UNKNOWN

There is something about opening a new, blank journal, as I am doing now, that always thrills me. Unlike the blank canvas or the blank page of a new “book” one is contemplating, the start of a new journal holds the exciting possibility that one is about to write one’s future and as such, anything and everything is possible. As if one can, with the ending of the last journal put the past behind one and turn a new leaf, as the saying goes.

It’s a grand illusion of course. Life is a continuum of present moments. Yet, as humans bent on measuring and marking our lives, we do have the opportunity to pause for a moment before these markers and ask ourselves what, exactly, would one like to embark on in this next chapter. And, if a clear answer arises, then one can, if one chooses, commit to that intention.

So I ask myself now, what is it I want to leave behind with the closing of the old journal?  And what might my intention be going forward? The answer to the first question comes unhesitatingly: I’d like to leave the atmosphere of death behind. Of course, by saying this, I realize I have already brought it with me. 

One of the interesting benefits of writing journals is that you can look back over the course of time that a journal took to complete and see a particular arc to that phase of life and within the arc, certain themes and subthemes one was exploring. So it is interesting to me that the last journal opened with birth – that of spring and also the impending birth of a friend’s baby. Yet within 2 pages, death arrived and has, one way or another, haunted me since; right up to the very last page of the journal just completed.

It is the haunting I wish to leave behind. I have no control over death itself, mine or anyone else’s. But the haunting must surely have to do with some fragility in my psyche, some as yet unexplored and thus unenlightened fear or misconception. And I was never one to let a sleeping dog lie.

I’ve always said I’m not afraid to die; this declaration often accompanied by the qualifier “not that I want to.” Like so many of us who are working on our personal evolution I like to think that I’m capable of opening my arms to death when it comes. I’ve been known to scoff at people who say they want to die in their sleep. I can hear myself boasting, “Not me, I want to be present for the mystery of it.”

Well, guess what? That’s pretty much a load of crap. Sure, I’m capable of being present for the ‘right’ kind of death. As if one can design it in advance. That must be a Baby Boomer thing, eh, “How to design your own death in 5 easy steps.” Jeez.  My ‘Designer Death’ would be to exit laughing, which, if you viewed the preceding video you’d agree would be a fun, if undignified, way to go.

But if my death would involve any sort of terror or excruciating pain e.g., the plane going down, well, at this point I can’t guarantee that I’d close my eyes, join middle fingers to thumbs and chant Ohm while the rest of the passengers screamed their way into oblivion.

So, there’s that. And then there’s the deeper bit; the uncomfortable bit about whether or not I’m living fully now. And the deeply disturbing bit about how much time I’ve wasted, from too many hours of sleep to all the many squandered opportunities.

I’ll be 66 in a couple of weeks; long past the halfway mark that was still feasible reassuring at age 50. And yet, of course, like most of us, I don’t most of the time feel my age nor, I am told, do I often act it. Nonetheless, I do look in the mirror everyday and am therefore disabused of the notion that I am 19. But here’s a piece of what’s haunting: until a couple of years ago I never felt my age. Now, sometimes, I do. And I tell you, it’s shocking. There’s something about the speed with which the ever-diminishing sand is running through the neck of the hourglass that takes my breath away. Yet in spite of this evidence I seem reluctant to engage in the activities that might ward off…what? Death? Not possible. But surely strenuous daily exercise and a ban on sugar would help.

So, is it this that is haunting me; the refusal to do what’s good for me, still, after all these years? This is one of the challenges with a life such as mine that has had its share of self-sabotage: you can never really trust yourself. No wonder I feel my age: I am tired of the continual search for my own ulterior motives, the constant questioning and judging and re-evaluation. That’s a death I’d gladly welcome: the fear of not doing the right thing…all the time.

Perhaps it’s time to feel and act my age. Perhaps then I could be at peace when not walking 5 miles a day in the desert heat of this Tuscan summer. Maybe it’s all right to have a second helping of gelato without worrying if it’s hastening me toward the unknown, but rather enjoy the pleasure of it while I can.

This brings back a memory of a friend of mine, back in the early 70’s when we were in our 20’s. His mother had been diagnosed with cancer and for two years she ‘fought’ it, driving to Canada every month for treatments and medications unavailable in the States. Her and her husband’s kitchen was like a laboratory, filled with juicers and scales and bottles of vitamins and natural herbs that were made into remedies almost every hour. Their lives were consumed by the need to ‘kill’ the cancer and then one day she dropped dead of a heart attack.

So, the revelation of the last journal is my preoccupation with death and the exhausting quest to do the right thing in order to have the right death.

My intention is to let go of that nonsense and to let go of the constant inspection for possible dubious motive. Who knows, if I get off my own case I might rebel a little less. Instead of refusing to do what I think is good for me I might just trust that I’m good enough to live whatever time is left.  In the meantime, I’m off to town for a gelato.