Sitting under a Tree, Close to the Water's Edge, on a soft Summer Day, Feeling One's Thoughts
www.youtube.com/watch?v=gdz3yalNkPM - Steve Roach
I must admit, had you asked me at 50, would I, at age 61, still have such passions and desires for this life as well as such doubts and questions, I would have said, “possible, but not probable.”
“Would you, Bob, have a growing sense of the continuing newness of life? Would you have so many questions remaining, and be aware of what you’ve yet to learn, yet to know?”
Actually, based upon the adults around me as I grew up, I would have thought I’d have all the answers by this age.
I am so, so, so glad I don’t. Having questions that might never get answered - as frustrating as that can be - still feels to be more right than having all the answers to everything.
I am still able to get butterflies in my stomach, still able to be nervous and unsure, still capable of having doubts about my place in this world, to still get anxious and fumble-tongued in the presence of a woman I like, and I’ve continuing passions and desires galore. It feels good.
I thought that was the stuff of teenagers. Apparently it is not, or I must now count myself among the oldest and least mature of teenagers ever.
In January, 2010, a life long friend and mentor, committed suicide by shooting himself in the head, down by the River near where we fish. He was responsible for me bcoming, "Bob, The Fishin' Guy!". He left no note. He was 60, as was I. He was one of those “last people on earth you’d expect to…” kind of people. Yeah, it was distressing. I’ve not recovered my equilibrium.
I thought I knew what life, especially mine, was all about. I was wrong. I must admit that now, at this age, outside of my photo/art, and it seems my writing, I’ve lost a good deal of what I KNEW was my purpose in life. Imagine my surprise to find myself so adrift on a raft at sea, far from sight of any land, at 61. I thought that was the stuff of movies.
Well, movies have gotta’ be based on something, right?
I’m not suicidal. I’m not major depressed, either. I still don’t understand such thoughts as suicide.
I’ve more questions now, I’m more open to consider things, a bit more thinking of life’s changes and my changing with it, (to what…I dunno’), to think of the major and minor “who, what, where, when, why and how’s” of my next years, than I was at 50.
I was still feeling kinda’ invulnerable way back then; those short, eleven years ago.
This is all a bit scary for me (I’ve taken more tranquilizers and breathing classes in the last year than all previous years combined). And, yeah, it is also quite a bit exciting too. True, I don’t bounce back up when I fall down like I used to; but I still get up in a timely and lively fashion, dammit!
I didn’t really imagine, I’d have this much “life” left in me by now and a question: What am I to do with it?
Is this all about loves lost and about one’s dying? Does everything in us humans eventually come down to love and dying?
OK, so you few guys reading this are the only ones who know anything about this and me. Keep it under your hat for awhile; on the Q.T., the Downlow, OK? I’m still Capt. Kirk, Superman and Mr. Spock (the unflappable) to everyone around me. (Although I now need glasses and I know “traipsing about the Universe is a young man’s game,” my cape is a bit worn and color faded, and I tend to be a bit more flappable than I was in my youth – I try to keep these things undercover).
But, I still think that trying anything, everything, and whatever comes my way, is still a pretty good sounding way to approach life. I wonder if that is getting to be foolish?
If you have any thoughts, I’m all ears.
textures courtesy: Artbychrysti