"Middle-aged? Good god! I'm not going to live to be 160!"
~Norman Thayer, Jr. On Golden Pond"
Time: That relentless ticking that we've created from the void to mark our length of existence. It isn't real. It's relative. And yet, we live by it each and every day.
Just last week, my wife and I were returning from Sunday Breakfast with the family, when I spotted a Baltimore Oriole lying on the side of the road. Apparently, struck down by his own unawareness of traffic and misunderstanding of physics, the bird seemed to move just a bit as we drove by, so I pulled over. He was, indeed, dead, but the wind tickled his brilliant feathers to make it appear as though he had movement.
The week before that, we attended the funeral of a man with whom I'd spent countless hours during years as a medic. He was larger than life with a booming voice like Barry White, and he commanded respect. He was a former Navy Seal, 6'4" and 250 pounds. Indestructible, unwavering, and solid as a rock. And dead at only 64 years old. Just like that, found dead in his recliner.
Only a year ago, we celebrated the amazing life of my wife's father. Also larger than life, he was a gifted musician, story teller, and salesman. He lit up a room, even while suffering from Alzheimer's. I knew him only a short time, but the pictures I've seen and the stories I've heard paint a vivid picture of a life lived fully and fearlessly. And now he's physically gone.
My father has been dead nearly 10 years. Like yesterday, I remember playing catch with him during my childhood. I remember backyard tents made of sheets, camping trips, vacations, fishing excursions and being his "little buddy." I remember my dad being 50 years old. I'm now older than that myself by over 11 years.
Look, I've always known there was a clock. For some reason, I've always been able to see the hands in position on the face and I can see the second hand sweeping gently around and around. Relentless and unstoppable. In my mind there has always been the clearest picture of that clock face, and it's always been divided into 4 sections: the first 15 minutes, the second, the third, and the fourth or last 15 minutes.
I'm sure my wife will gladly attest to the relentless nagging I do about time. I can't help it. I count backwards from when we need to be somewhere, then factor in prep time, travel time, possible flat-tire time, bathroom breaks, ad infinitum, until I calculate a time to leave. It's annoying, even for me. "It's time to go." "We need to leave in 10 minutes." "We need to get gas" "Blah, blah, blahbiddy, blah, blah, blah." I can count on one hand the times I've been late for anything my entire life.
Our time in these miracles called a body is fleeting. My children are grown. I already have 4 grandchildren. High school was over 40 years ago. My brother just attended his 50 Year High School Reunion. My father is gone. My mother is 90. I can start drawing Social Security next year and I'll draw Medicare in only 3.5 years. My brain is constantly filled with a lifetime of amazing memories. And they all happened in the blink of an eye.
I remember turning 25 and thinking, "My god, I've already lived a quarter of a century." But even with that realization, it seemed as though time would go on forever; as if I'd never click over to the next 15 minutes. But time did click over to the next 15 minutes, and to the next. And, assuming I live to be 80 (I'm counting on more), It's already counting down the last quarter of my life on earth.
Please understand, I'm not particularly bothered by the fact I'm living in the last quarter, or so. I have no real fear of death or what comes after. But I am fascinated at how fast it has all gone. How did that happen? And what do I want to do with the rest of it? Yes, the clock is ticking. And it seems like it's going faster and faster. I've always known there was a clock. Always. The only difference between 25 and 61 is.....
Now I can hear it.
Namaste
