Profound

Today is Wednesday and blog posting day.

Only one word has come to mind.

Profound.

I am beginning to hate the word.

Where did people get the idea I automatically sit down and attempt to write profound musings?

Today the pressure was inhibiting.

The reality… I tell little stories; I don’t try to be profound at all.

Maybe it’s the act of not wanting to be ruled by a deadline.

This is its own pressure.

Wednesday is here so a story must appear.

I’m not even looking for something profound… I’m just looking.

And odd, I have the story for next week; it’s done and ready to post.

However it’s not the story for today.

And it’s certainly not profound.

My life has become sublime. So today, to stop and write a blog seems pointless and somehow not profound at all.

 

After

My contention is that what happens after you die is none of your business. Still I have prepared for my inevitable death and aftermath as much as I can. I’m a practical person and one of the first in my circle of friends to have a will drawn up.  It seemed like the proper thing to do.  In the letter that accompanies it I’ve said not to worry, scatter my ashes if you must, but do it for you, not me.  Remember, I’m dead.  I won’t know what’s happening.  I’ve moved on.

Then Gerry begged to differ.

This week he’ll become the executor of my will.  He’s the perfect candidate.  Caring and compassionate, utterly human.  He owns a businessman’s mind.  He appreciates the game of squash.

His comment, “I’m going to spread your ashes in Scotland”.

Not much stuns me but this hit the mark.  Why?  Well, why would he think to do this? The Scotland idea has never crossed my mind. I’ve said any kind of post dead ceremony wasn’t a requirement and certainly not a request. Now he insists it will happen.  The outcome is not up for debate.

Gerry explained this all in a stiff matter of fact statement.

Later that night I realized we should all talk about what will happen after our bodies are diminished to ash. Better still, we should talk to the “Gerrys” in our lives.  I honestly don’t think I will care if little traces of my body are spread across the land I love.  Gerry seems to know better.

Yet, clearly I care more than I am willing to admit. Well not about where my ashes end up, but that someone like Gerry would even give this a second thought. Having someone who would honour what goes on in my heart far surpasses any objection I grumble about.  It’s the soothing realization that another person cares and has listened to what I hold close. Someone really knows what I cherish and it matters to them.

Isn’t it always the little things?  Well a trip to Scotland with an urn of ashes is not little.  But you know what I mean.

I imagine laying someplace, all too aware that my last breaths are bottoming out, my heart slowing to a stop, the light inside my soul starting to flicker.  At that moment I know a small part of me will shout out a reminder that Scotland is near.  A small part of me will also thank Gerry.

 

Stifle

She asked, “What stifles you”?

That’s a good question. Am I stifled?  My first reaction is nothing stifles me.  But I guess the real deal is that no outside source stifles me.  I’m pretty direct and don’t hold back much.  And who would actually try to stifle me? I don’t think many would try.

These days I’m tending to stifle myself.   I’m not being very successful but I’m trying.  I have paid a pretty hefty price for not curtailing thoughts and comments so now I’m trying to take that extra second before I speak, write or act.  Is it helping? In some areas, yes. I’m not use to holding back so I find myself with missteps, but yes, it’s a better way to be.

Then I sit down to write.

I am blessed the stifle switch seems to automatically turn off and all the words and thoughts appear.

There is a force field protecting my story telling from the restraints I now heap on my real life.

We are told the more exposed the writing the better. Well at least for the first draft.  Then the revisions and edits can fix and hide the episodes no one has the right to read about. There needs to be secrets.

If I can keep writing about everything and not hold back I should be fine.

Then maybe publish under a pen name.  We all know I would never do that.

But back to the real world… stifle what I say and do? Yes, it is probably the best option.  There have been so many times I have gotten myself in trouble.  Maybe it’s time I learned that my happiness might just depend on the reins I should gladly put on myself.

So there it is… being me stifles me.  It seems like a very sad state.

And a little ironic side note… this is not the post I wanted to use this week.  This was my second choice.  Yes, I stifled myself.

 

55

This week I will turn 55.  In my mind I officially become old. Don’t bother me with your proclamations that you are only as old as you feel.  Or only as young as you feel.  Rubbish. I’m old.

I’ve wished for my own death so many times, to find myself still alive is to say the least, perplexing.

But here I am.  And for better or worse I continue to be here.

You play the hand you are dealt. The world around me will still give moments of intense bliss and then in the next second a devastating blow… this is life.

It’s the same for everyone.

The longest game and no one can guess what each other’s ultimate goal really is.

I believe I know where I’m heading.

And the question I will put to others this week…

What is your long game?  Where are you heading?

And the haunting question I ask myself in the 3am hour when the world is still and my mind is racing…

Have I done enough to right the wrongs?

The C-Word

People casually use the F-word these days.  Fuck this, fuck that, fucking hell, he’s a fucker…. You fuck!

I find it hard to take when a person you assume never swears uses the word.  It’s a bit of a reality check.  When Mrs. B said it, I laughed.  I never thought of her as a person that would revert to using foul language.  She’s English, has a lovely soft accent, is 68 and regularly attends church.  Who knew she would let out an “Oh fuck!”

I told her it was OK to use that word but the C-word was definitely off limits.  She made a face when I even hinted about what seems to be one of our most naughty words.  I don’t even think she would say “the C-word” let alone the word itself.

Even I have a hard time typing the word.  Well OK, I don’t hesitate in my private correspondence, but here, on a blog, never!  (that’s not true… I will one day… maybe sooner than later.)

But let’s get back to the story.

Prim and proper Mrs. B went on to discuss the attributes of the F-word and the C-word. Fuck can be used in so many ways… nouns, verbs, adjectives… whereas with the C-word you are limited.  You can’t use it as a verb.  Interesting point Mrs. B.

Our language is evolving faster than we can absorb.  Our lives are evolving faster than we can absorb. Change is everywhere. This can be scary at times but in the right light it all seems so magical.

There might also be magic in finding a way to use the C-word as a verb. Think about it? This may open up a whole generation willing make it their own.

Fuck.