I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Not death, precisely, but about life, and how much of it I may have left.
I'm not sick. In fact I feel wonderful-I can complete a crossfit class, facilitate a meeting, then go home and parent my kids. I fit so much into a day!
It's just that I'm not certain that I'm doing it right, this life. How much time do I have left? How many healthy, capable years remain- years in which I might travel and write and take that improv class? Ten? Thirty? Is that enough time?
Am I spending my days in the way that I should?
He wrote until he could no longer hold the pen, then he dictated. When he no longer had the strength to dictate, he rested.
It seemed heroic to me- writing furiously until the end. They say that Sacks did his thinking on the page and I believe it. Writing is how I make sense of the world. Shouldn't I be writing furiously right now, every day? Or baking furiously, or tangoing furiously?
What is all this activity that takes all my time? Do I really need to DO all these things? What can I just stop doing?
It seems important to get this right.