I'm not feelin' too good myself.
-Dave Mason, 1968
One of my best friends lost his mom last night.
Another friend lost his wife yesterday.
My mom went home seven years ago this month.
Pete left two years ago in November.
I'm a bit stove up at the moment with sadness for my friends and memories of my own.
Why is it harder this time of year?
Or, is it?
None of us gets out of here alive.
Why don't we prepare ourselves better?
The birth of a child is filled with months (sometimes years) of excited anticipation. We celebrate the event every year.
But how often do we talk about the certain death that is to come for each of us? What are we afraid of?
Like, not talking about it is going to make it not happen?
We all have a terminal disease. It's called life.
There are lots of grief counselors. Lots of grief songs. Lots of grief books. I've listened to and read lots of them.
And I've learned there are no magic words to heal what ails me.
Maybe there should be a new movement started to get us ready for the inevitable.
Give death a new name. Rebrand it. Learn to celebrate it's normalcy.
Call it something catchy. Like, Culmination Day.
Teach it to our children. Sing songs about it. Write poems about it.
So that it doesn't shock us. So that it doesn't leave those of us behind with such an emotional toll.
Maybe we have a warped sense of our mortality. In a world where it seems that nothing is impossible, how can something like death not be avoided?
We live so well. Maybe too well. We live healthier, longer.
Maybe we need to get our heads (or at least mine) out of the sand and realize the circle of life includes us. And mine. And me.
I hear you Pete. Yes, Mom.
"Get off my ass and quit with the pity party."
Thanks. I will.
'Cause there's too much to do before I die.