For those of you who’ve never had the pleasure of living in seasonless paradise (or hell, depending on your outlook), time passes crazy fast with no external markers of the obvious variety.
And, for those of you who are still stuck in your 20s, time accelerates (or seems to) with each passing decade, something you can’t begin to understand until you’ve got more years of driving under your belt, or voting, or (legally) drinking, than not.
Without getting all Cat’s-in-the-Cradle on you, it’s kind of important to have not only a plan and a whole lot of carpe diem fueling it, but it’s especially so when you’re staring down the back half of your life from the sun-baked flats of Los Angeles. Despite my type-A tendencies, I managed to fritter away big, honking swaths of my life on crap activities for the first 10 or so years after graduating from college. That wouldn’t be so bad, we’ve all of us got to fritter a little bit, but I’ve got introvert genes and fear-of-God-and-the-Non-Standard-Job programming, so I was perhaps a little overly slow in embracing change.
One of the things that becomes unavoidable as you age is the introduction of common tragedy to one’s life: illness, sadness, death. Both my parents and all of my grandparents died in rapid succession over the course of 10 years, from my early 30s to my early 40s. Friends have begun succumbing to illnesses, cancer, hypertension and the like; my own bitch-slap of a Crohn’s onset shook me up but good seven-odd years ago.
Still, it’s easy to forget. It’s another sunny day here in seasonless paradise, and the hours fly by, filled as they are with obligations, chores, and the occasional fire that needs putting out. First the hours, then the days, then 40 years later all of a sudden you’re wrapped in a Snuggie watching the weather channel with the volume turned up way too loud, marking time by meals and medication. I forget, and I spent five months climbing the walls with frustration during my Crohn’s recovery: I was so happy the first day I could drive myself to the post office and back I actually cried (right before falling asleep for three hours from exhaustion).
I suppose there are as many ways to stay aware of time passing as there are people to dream them up, but a new one I’ve started is keeping the obituaries nearby. Not all of them, and not as they come in. Just the “Farewell” page from the end-of-year issue of THE WEEK, with everyone on it but poor Eartha Kitt, who missed the cutoff date for publication. It’s good for me to look up from my computer and see Paul Newman and Studs Terkel and Alexandr Solzhenitsyn looking back at me, asking me what the hell I’ve done with my day. It’s even good to see some of the sadder entries, David Foster Wallace and Tim Russert, who died too soon (and, in Wallace’s case, too, too horribly). Because you never know, and because you can never be too grateful for the good minutes you’re given.
I realize that even teeing up the discussion this way puts me in old-man-hitchin’-up-my-pants territory. But so be it.
I am my own old man, and that old man’s job is to make sure I’m doing mine…
xxx
c
Image by bobboo_77 via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.
Yeeeup, Yeeeeup. Yeeeup. Got a lump in my throat. Must hug dog. I put you on “blog links” “c”, on my site which looks like a carnival. But, it’ll do for now. Visit at hildyhildyhildy.blogspot.com, I couldn’t muster the “time” to go sloooowwwly, but I will eventually, because your work is so beautiful, the new site too. I love the picture at the art show! Luv, P.
Sweet P! I went ahead and linked up your name—er…initial. Because people should go see that tasty video, and internet people are lazy: they like links!
Your a genius, didn’t even know you could link up the P, what the heck.
P
Thanks
From the cold shores of Stockholm, Sweden, California sounds VERY tempting. But I guess it all depends on perspective.
As I scraped the ice off the car this morning, I cursed living in such a cold clime. It gets harder each year and I often dream of Ile de Ré, off the coast of La Rochelle, France. My soul home.
Still, I’ve got 8 week-old basset hound pups next to my desk just to remind me that life, in spite of all the silliness, can really be beautiful.
You can see a pic-a-day at http://www.bjorkwood.com.
I’m reading Jon Katz’s story of how he upped and left New York for upstate Bedlam and a farm for his woofs. Twenty years ago I would have thought he was nuts. Now I can’t help but plan something similar.
Oh sister, does this one hit home!
I never thought I’d be the sentimental mom who was all “this is the last time….” but when you suddenly (heh. suddenly. because almost 17 years is sudden I guess) find yourself with a senior in high-school you are surprised by the type of stuff that flies out of your mouth.
I don’t know if you can blame it all on the “seasonless paradise” thing though. I’ve been in Minnesota my whole 47 years and Lord knows, we have the Season Change thing down pat.
The time still accellerates and I still find the weeks whizzing by in a blur of busy-ness and obligations and getting from Point A to Point B. And even though I like to think I’m a Stop and Smell the Damn Roses, or Look at That Sunset! type of girl, it has all just flown by too quickly.
Crap. Now I’m misting up.
Anyway, the Media Mail arrived yesterday! What a lovely surprise! Thank you so much! AND I committ to paying it forward when I’m done with it because Lord knows, I wouldn’t want another book cluttering up the place when I’m done.
Jon – Amazing what a difference 20 years makes, right? My idea of paradise now is dramatically different from the one I had in my twenties. Which did not include dogs, unmarried togetherness or certainly the Internet. I love it. I love it all, I say!
NFH – Well, if it’s all the same to you, then, I’ll stick to seasonless paradise
Glad you dig it. Glad you *get* it. Thanks for being awesome. Go forth and, uh, un-multiply. Or whatever.
blinkity-blinkity-blink … from a post semi-centennial perspective
and again, it is with much appreciation that i am in receipt of the clarity and expression of your thought/s …