The snow has been melting today. Just when I think it is time to hang and fill the bird feeders for the winter, the sun comes out, it all melts, and I worry that I will be inviting visits from not-yet-hibernating bears. Meanwhile, the platform feeder on the floor of the deck holds seed for the jays and the towhees...Oh, and the visiting mice. Mishka haunts the sliding doors when a mouse appears.
Right now, she is curled up asleep by my right arm, quietly purring.
(I also emitted a silent purr when I was curled up next to my beloved.)
I read today of the death of an elder in the community, a friend of Zalman's and mine and of many of us, a stalwart member of the Monday morning group who was sometimes the only one to arrive, a composer and singer of songs, a teacher, a fulfilled father and a loving husband still in love with his wife. I heard that the two of them recounted to each other in the hospital stories of their courtship and long love---a fine coda.
He was simultaneously unobtrusive and an essential presence.
Like Zalman, z'l, like Bernie Glassman roshi, z'l, Bob Atchley will also leave a void that cannot be filled by another.
All of this brings unavoidable notice of my own aging, in case I had not noticed.
I look at this desk---a disaster of paper that isn't even in piles but forms a chaotic nest. Some of it is current. Some is material from which I had hoped to create something. Some is---wtf is this and how did it get here? Some is uh-oh; too late.
Then there are the shelves and shelves plus a suitcase of journals. (Until a friend informed me, I did not know that this might mean I was a writer.)
Nearby in a file drawer: folders of lists and sheet music of songs I hope to perform someday.
Hanging on the wall, a guitar.
This is not a picture of wrapping-it-up.
This is a picture of stuff-still-to-do.
Whenever it is, it is unlikely that I will schlepp towards my death bored.
More likely, growling at the Angel of Death "Wait a minute! I still have to finished the---"
Sweet dreams, everybody!