mental-health

Death? Again? Noooo….

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I’m having lots of trouble sleeping. You? The mind races with thoughts about SAD, Trump, America, Social Security, Medicare, apartments, homes, health, and an ex-girlfriend whose hurtful actions can’t be forgiven

At age 73, shouldn’t another word be on that list?

As my mind raced last night that word popped into my head: Death. Wide awake and ruminating away about everything except…death (small d, this time, see the difference?).

The realization mortality was not part of my late night consternation festival kind of made me happy. Maybe, pleased with myself is a better description. Death is a constant companion in old age. When the news reports an actor’s death at 69, or the retired sports star’s life ends at 72, one can not help but think he, me, is lucky to be able to hear the news. Going to bed isn’t accompanied by the hope of waking up alive, but it is a subtext, especially if dying in your sleep is your preferred method of reaching the afterlife.

Sidebar: All morning a thought from last night has been escaping me. An important thought, I thought, but obviously not important enough for me to get out of bed and write it down. In the above paragraph it revealed itself, so I’ll share, plus many thanks to my slowing brain for not deleting the idea and making me work for it. The thought: When you die in your sleep, do you know you’re dying? Or is death just an eternal extension of sleep? Imagine being shot or stabbed, or suffering from a mortal illness. You spend at least a few moments knowing it is the end, don’t you? You may even spend minutes, hours, or days getting ready for the final breath…wishing things were different.

After reading the sidebar, it appears Death/death did enter nighttime, cranial ramblings, albeit, in a Dr. Steven Wright kind of way.

Of course, the whole point of this essay is how funny the mind works so this writing can be accepted as cogent.

Okay, I agree with myself except for the fact “cogent” refers to a well-stated “argument or case, one that is clear, logical and convincing.” So says the Oxford people. But I just read back through this jumble and can’t see anywhere a “case” or “argument” has been made.  For or against anything. Does that make the entire exercise pointless?

Let’s go with a “yes”, because an answer makes a case, makes an argument, and my inability to focus and write an essay sensible and informative suddenly becomes indisputable. I knock over your King.

With a re-read and hindsight, this gibberish fits the style of our modern news, anyway. I’m topical!

And relevant.

The real villain is SAD. “Seasonal Affective Disorder” is a real thing. A long, never-ending winter in Upstate New York is the cause. It’s been over 20 years since my life was “snowed under” by weather that saps the soul, steals the “joie de vive”, and makes an Independent Liberal long for Florida.

It won’t happen again.

My Two Brains

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For many years, now I’ve wondered if there are two brains in the body. You, too?

My vacation to the Warm South was meant to be a break from the Winter North, but also to test hopefully repaired, rejuvenated, and reclaimed physical abilities. It was during this testing, the “proof” of my second brain was finally revealed.

There have always been internal conversations–such as the infinitely confusing argument between doing good or doing bad–but I assumed those discussions were a normal personality abnormality, simple sophistry inspired by too much Devil’s Advocacy during young, formative years. It would go away with time and maturity, and the accumulation of wisdom. But the second brain discovered in North Carolina last week is different, it actually-,better tell the discovery story, first.

Sometime in the mid-morning hours of Thursday, March 27, 2025, I was in a Happy Place: a public tennis court surrounded by tennis players my own age. It was a time to celebrate recovery, patience, and give the beleaguered medical corporate establishment some credit for good work. The early moments were a time full of insults, name-calling, trash-talking, and too many hugs, all of which were greatly appreciated. Sadly, the second brain discovery happened only moments after actual physical activity was perpetrated. Yes, perpetrated. Perfect word for what happened. Look it up.

A now ex-friend hit a soon to be outlawed (hopefully) shot called a “Drop Shot”. For the un-tennis among you, the Drop Shot is a nasty trick played on mature, semi-immobile tennis players by younger, fully mobile tennis players. Given the abundance of gray hair and joint braces this morning, there was no expectation any one of us would ever have to face such a nasty play. I felt especially free from worry as I was recovering, attempting to resurrect my game, and open to any special treatment benefiting my progress. In a later post we will discuss whether or not there is honor among septuagenarians. (Full disclosure, it was our groups lone octogenarian who hit the shot, so I’ve no legal basis for claim, if so inclined.)

The beginning of the unappreciated drop shot was quickly seen by my Big Skull Brain (BSB), and  BSB immediately broadcast the signal to the entire body to move forward at a rapid pace to get to the falling tennis ball before it hit the ground. Perfect. Just right. So far.

But the next thing to hit the ground was me. The “ground”, by the way, in public tennis courts is painted concrete.

If you are at all familiar with the saying “got out over the ends of my skies”, then no more explanation is needed. For the rest of you, as my BSB issued commands, some other, smaller brain not only cancelled those commands, but did it with prejudice. As I lay writhing on the ground/concrete watching the yellow ball bounce next to my skinned knee, a comment between my BSB and the other, smaller brain was overheard. It went like this: “Move? Hell, no. We ain’t going nowhere.”

And thus a mystery was solved: we do have two brains. At least I do. A naïve, uninformed person may say the smaller brain is located in the penis of a male and it is hard to argue they’d be wrong. We will not attempt to locate the female smaller brain or even make the argument the females are equipped with one. Utter discretion. And maybe one is all they need, anyway

That NC morning’s facts are: one brain said “go” and the other said “no”. My big skull appeared to follow BSB’s directive and moved forward. Parts of the upper body followed, but reluctantly, as if the debate between big and small brain was already happening and non-brain parts were confused about which command to follow. The penis theory might be right because the lower parts followed the small brain directive and pretty much stayed in the same spot, leaving my big skull, and upper trunk to accept gravity’s invitation and topple over, risking major injury if no more action was taken. Fortunately, some sort of “emergency” system (a THIRD brain??) kicked in and my arms extended to absorb most of the impact. The upper body rescued itself and rolled over, saving the heart and lungs for later abuse.

It’s as if the small brain was punished for its incalcitrant (sic) actions as most of the medical carnage was done to knees and lower extremities. Take that, small brain. Aside: why do skinned knees take so long to heal?

You can understand how hurt BSB was, but it did a masterful job of pretending not to be hurt and graciously accepted every ounce of empathy.

It was a distracted drive home with the constant stream of debate between brains. I tried not to listen but did hear the word “insurrection” more than once.

The one, major positive about aging is the things you learn about yourself. One positive, now is—with a second brain—all the bad things done in the past are not entirely my fault…are they?

A Few of the Many Things I Don’t Understand

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Why do things fall from my hands so easily? It was much easier to pick them up when I was younger, so why didn’t they fall, then?

With a population of 340 million people, why do 77 million voters keep saying they “represent all of America”? Don’t the other 263 million people matter?

Where DOES time go? I’ve never heard anyone answer.

Could there be more than one “soulmate” in someone’s life? Follow up question (FUQ): How could a man get married a THIRD time without learning his lesson after the second?

Why does a person who does something stupid work so hard to deny it? FUQ (Yes, I know what it sounds like. Stop giggling.): Is it because they are stupid?

Why do we elect popular people for Prom King and President? FUQ: Are females just not popular? Are smart, intelligent, experienced candidates persona non grata? Like the television show, “Survivor”, are they too much of a threat?

A baseball player for “the other New York Team” will make $51 million dollars per year to play baseball. Is it a coincidence it is same amount as the entire annual budget for the city in Upstate NY where I live? Definite FUQ up: Could the player adopt the city and support us?

When someone says, “be cool”, do they have a specific temperature in mind? FUQ: Be “chill”? I’ve never been able to agree on temperature with anyone I ever lived with so…

Why do conservatives whine so much about “Main Stream” and “Legacy Media”? Isn’t Fox News Legacy Media? Fox is definitely “main stream”. Okay, Fox is lame. FUQ: Do Fox viewers know Fox was designed to be biased. On purpose. To counter other bias. Another FUQ: Do two wrong bias’ make a right? Do they offset? Should we be watching the cartoon network for news?

Why are sports teams so insensitive? March Madness is here. I predict two teams will fight like cats and dogs during a hard-fought, entertaining, exhausting game and when it’s over,…hate each other. In the old days (OD), in the YMCA gyms, we fought like cats and dogs and then went out for beers. Ah, the OD.

When did money take over the world? At least the American world. There are more ways to make money without making anything, now. They call it passive income. In the OD if you couldn’t shoe a horse, sew up as wound, or kill another man before he killed you, you were out of luck. Now, if you put some horse-shoeing income in a tax-deferred account, invest it in ETF’s, and sell high and buy low…huh. Maybe that is productive work.

Why does the body fall apart, wither, and die? FUQ: Is there any way to guarantee our mind won’t leave us before the body does?

Sorry about those two…

Why do all the people in old photographs look so unhappy? Was it their nature or the inconvenience of having to stay immobile long enough for the film to work?

Life must have been hard in the real OD. Thinking of how hard it would be, for example, to wipe your butt with a Montgomery Ward Catalogue page. Or a leaf. Maybe they never went to the bathroom. Ken Burns could make a documentary about defecation and urination. FUQ: How many people have died over the course of history?

Enough. It’s sad to write about some things…

A Big Sigh For Something

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It’s been a while. Winter doldrums? Probably. That’s what I’m telling everyone. It’s been so long since snow and cold affected my mood. (Note: I spent a few minutes looking up if the winter weather “effected” me or “affected” me. Learn something new every day. Freshly fallen snow is a beautiful thing unless it won’t go away and more falls the next day, and states of emergency are called for and no one can go ANYWHERE AND NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING AND YOU HAVE TO JUST SIT THERE IN The Chair and wait…

Sorry. There is only so much (or so many feet) a person can handle…

Now that that** is off my chest, maybe it wasn’t all the snowflake’s fault. When confronted with the need to entertain yourself, there is only so much philosophy you can knead before your mind wanders back into the real world. The Real Trump World. Actually, it might not be Trump’s world which is really bothering me. It’s The Billionaires’ World.  There’s the problem. Often wonder what you would do if you had enough money to do anything you want? And do it over and over again? Elon’s 14 “reported” kids show what he is interested in when not designing cars, spaceships, satellites, and our government’s destruction. But what would YOU do?       

Really. How did we get to a place where nothing has value since we have enough to pay the cost of anything. Is there anything money can’t buy, these days?

Of all the shortcomings made obvious by mankind’s history, the ability to be callous and indifferent to a poorer, weaker population is the most egregious, the most revealing of basic human nature. The amount of money estimated to raise every United States Citizen out of poverty (for one year) is about $175 billion. I have trouble with a figure so easily obtained, but let’s use it for now. If $175 billion dollars is doled out to raise the income of everyone under the poverty line to make their income go over the poverty line, it would take $175 billion. AI on google says Musk is estimated to be worth $433 billion. At the end of 2024. The Richest Man In The World.

If (not when) I were worth $433 billion, I’d try the experiment of giving away $175 billion to poor people and see what happens. Keep in mind Mush (sic. It’s a cute typo so it stays.) would still have $258 billion left to play…anything he wants. Or do it again, next year.

As for me, with my remaining $258 billion (yes, I am repeating it as often as possible), I’d build a big dome over my apartment complex and have my building be the only building in upstate New York not needing a snow plow. We’d have restaurants, gyms, pools, and…

Largesse and Noblis Oblige. Don’t read, here, anymore. Google those two terms. Homework.

A second contribution to the mood so dark I’ve named it “The Other Side of The Moon”, is how hard it is to understand people on the right. MAGAns are working tirelessly to make their brave, new world sound like a nice place to live, like the world is “just the way they want it”, and “Trump is doing exactly what he said he’d do.” Perfection. These are neighbors. Old friends. Fellow citizens who—for some reason—cannot fathom the destruction TRUSK (copywrite pending) is causing to the world, the country, to states, to cities, to towns, and to people who only wanted to have a good job for the rest of their lives. Federal workers are NOT Deep State Moles and conspirators. Really, they are not.

Aw, screw it. Daylight Savings Time is coming Sunday. Spring. Hope. Rebirth.

But, of what?

** Double that’s. My work here is done.

Some bad things?

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It is a curse to be self-aware, especially if you don’t know it.

The title refers to things about myself that I don’t notice. They get put in a pile, get forgotten (really: ignored) and then sooner or later, they get addressed. It is later, now.

I don’t really mind other drivers: it’s the yelling at life, I like. You “no-signalling turners” and “stop-at-yield-sign” drivers are not as irritating as you might think. They simply “release the hounds” of profanity. Since it happens in an empty car, with the windows rolled up, there is deniability built in if the other driver chases me down and has a Glock.

Things fall all around me for no reason, making me pick them up. I curse them with the common lament of the persecuted: “Why me?” It does help when other people my age say they feel the same. It doesn’t end the feeling of persecution, though, and I might rather enjoy that, too. (See above paragraph.)

When things are going good for me, I make the mistake of saying out loud a phrase that acts as a trigger and ruins the mood. Can anyone guess what the phrase is? It is the universal wail of the optimist who is skeptical: “Something bad’s gonna happen, soon.”

My life (which is probably at least similar to yours) is comprised of different moods, and I feel like wearing an apology sign for all those who get in my way when I’m in my Bad Mood (BM…please don’t confuse it with doody.) In a BM a slow clerk is the End of the World, and society is coming apart. In a BM the slightest grammatical error, the slightest slight from a public servant, the lack of efficiency of a waitress makes me start planning an underground bunker with lots of frozen pizzas.

But in a Good Mood (GM, no not the car company), those events listed, above, make me smile, and wonder what the future holds for the guilty person. At the grocery store this morning, I used a real person for checkout since there was only one man in front of me with a small order. But when it came time to pay, that’s when he took out his voluminous wallet and started counting out bills, and then change. Oddly, I felt the line growing behind me more than I felt the usual annoyance of being slowed down, AND I felt sorry for the old gentleman. What is happening to me????

Here’s another Bad Thing. I feel so good this morning I wrote a nasty, “let’s end things” text to the woman who screwed me over this past summer. As a good, decent man I had been trying to save a 21 year relationship but suddenly decided to believe–and act on–what my friends liked to say about her: “She is a cruel, selfish bitch.” Oddly, sending the “close the door on all possibility” text made me feel better.

I do not look my age. Two doctors this week, alone, who had not read my file yet, accused me of being “Mid-50 years old”. One last month thought my 50-year-old daughter was my wife. You probably can’t see the problem, so I’ll explain: I look too young for woman my age, but am factually too old for women the age I look like. If you’re married or in a committed relationship you won’t understand. But try and imagine being a 72-year male back on the market, back on the prowl. I tried a dating site for a few days but stopped because it took too long to prove the profile picture was recent. One “lady” (the quotation marks will be explained in the next sentence) asked for a pic of my birth certificate. With hindsight, she was probably a Nigerian Romance Scammer. Maybe I should have just lied and looked for younger women. Imagine, too, a 72 year-old woman being “accosted” by a 55 year old man asking for a date. (No, I have not encountered any Cougars in Upstate NY, they all moved to Florida.)

It’s too bad a GM can’t just be enjoyed. And a BM ignored. But it is much better to be alive and aware, than lost in The Calamities and eternal doom. A close, younger friend just learned he needs a pacemaker. The news saddened me at first, but then the news sidled up next to what the worst could be and life got back to balance for him, and for me as an accessory to the fact.

With all the bad that can happen, balance is heaven.

Personal Issues of Men and Women

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A few days ago I wrote about a personal issue between me and a partner of 21 years.

My sad details are irrelevant but the important part was the “mechanism” of relationships, including how to start them, nurture them, and end them. Obviously my current concern is the end, but let’s not lose sight of The Start. A dating website has discussion groups entitled “Who should make the first move?” and “Should you wait for him to ask the first question?” Hm. As a young man, wondering how to start things never came up: I dove in without regard for personal safety.

Now, in the senior years, many of us are not only unsure of how to make the first move, but also unsure if we should. Are we allowed? Is it proper? These questions can still be answered with the exuberance of youth: Dive right in. Most seniors still won’t, but consider the option: waiting? The object of your interest may die before you get up the nerve.

Nurturing a relationship would take too long to explain and I’m not the best at it, anyway. This last was the longest ever, and it still did not last. We’ll talk nurturing, later.

But The End…in years of my own personal relationships, and those of close friends, The End is never simple, never easy. The Christian concept of forgiveness adds to the problem. Many a female in my past was in relationship characterized by mistreatment but kept forgiving, kept enduring. Is that wrong?

In discussing human problems we allow for the spectrum of human behavior, but in this discussion we will only deal with the “two people who truly love each” other scenario, the one where both–over many years–collect and pile up small injustices until they become a molehill. Eventually, one of the participant’s molehill becomes a mountain and a “switch is flipped”, which cannot be “unflipped”. The one with the flipped switch then needs to exit, to find relief, to find something new, find greener grass. The remaining partner never understands because the remaining partner looks at their molehill and wonders “I put up with theirs, why can’t he/she/them put up with mine?” The defining characteristic of this ending is that both departed and remaining partners think they are right, think they are the victims, and are the aggrieved. The worst case scenario for intelligent, well-meaning people.

Yes, I’ve experienced this, but been there for many others, male and female, when it happened. In reality, neither is really wrong, but friends and family take sides, anyway, and then…well, anything can happen. It doesn’t help to mention to all the “two sides to every story” nugget. It doesn’t help to say time will heal everything, either. With this ending, both sides suffer, and have unresolved questions about why. And sometimes unresolved questions cause irrational acts. Ugh. Again, everyone suffers. And the two actor’s communication falls apart, ending all hope.

Maybe this ending is an American thing. Maybe our rich and powerful drug companies could develop a pill for endings/divorce that wipes out memory and leaves both participants with a clean slate. It would be a moneymaker.

But it is life. Having The End happen is not new, but to have it happen at a senior age is. The “time will heal all wounds” becomes irrelevant. Moot. Much like seniors.

It is still life, but a new kind, an unexplored territory with a definite horizon in the foreseeable future, for both of us.

Time to dive right in.

Contentment…Awe…Happiness…Grace…

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A friend sent a link to a discussion on Awe, (google Dr. Dacher Keltner for more).

It reminded me of my essay about talking to the tree: it was so old, so big, so majestic…it was awe inspiring.

It’s hard to remember all that’s written, but somewhere in past essays I’ve explained my life has moments of grace, which is a form of awe and close relative to contentment and it’s older brother, happiness. A family of deep, rich, feelings one is truly blessed to experience.

But…doesn’t everyone have these experiences? More particularly, doesn’t every OLD person have these experiences? They seem to be coming with greater frequency, as if compensation for The Calamities. Is that happening to everyone, else?

It’s doubtful. Most of my older conversational partners are trapped in mindsets longing for the good old times, a way out of the times they are in, or a way to numb themselves to what they know is to come.

Sidebar: a religious article this morning led me to ponder an old question: if you are truly righteous and believe in an afterlife, why not get there as soon as possible? Why wait? And it’s not just Christianity.

Related to the Fraternity Of Good Feelings, is The Sorority of Sad Feelings. (Not a sexist insult, simply an artistic attempt at humor. Sue me.) As noted last week, a very sad day visited but left in time to not ruin the next. It was an odd bum-rush of a feeling I used to kind of enjoy when younger. If you belong to the school of Context and Perspective, sadness helps describe and enhance happiness/contentment. How do we recognize one if the other never exists?

Another sidebar? It may be the exercise I’m doing here, right, now, is part of the reason for lower levels of sadness and higher levels of undefinable Good Feelings.

One of the things Dr. Keltner mentions in his podcast is the gratefulness he feels for how his parents raised him. For my entire life I have felt the opposite. Farm life was hard. My father was not perfect. My mother was. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming them for a life I seem to enjoy so much, now. (Oh, God, Not Nature vs. Nuture, again.)

Look. Seriously, look. For some reason sunsets and sunrises have to be photographed. I have to listen to hours of Jackson Browne. Trees talk to me. I love The Chair. And Buffalo Chicken Pizza. And…

It’s easier to find reason to be content, to be awed, than to sit and absorb the reasons to angry, sad, resentful.

Just look….

Man…and Woman…Sigh…

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A close, personal relationship just ended. It’s none of your business, but the mechanics of it might be: why is it so hard for men and women to communicate?

The Men from Mars and Women from Venus trope is tired, but true. A better example is the Black Box from management courses. It says we don’t talk to each other, we talk into a Black Box. And the other person doesn’t hear us, they hear what they take out of the Black Box. Is what is said into the Black Box what is heard FROM the Black Box? Very seldom…very, very, seldom.

My recent, personal issue is a text book example. It will be discussed here, in its simplest form, and you can fill in details, you’ve probably all been through the same thing…at some time.

A plan was designed to protect someone. Said “someone” did not understand The Plan. The Plan had to be implemented at a quicker pace due to The Calamities, and so was undertaken without the complete understanding of the “someone”.

The Plan has worked to (nearly) perfection for the “someone”, which makes the planner really happy.

But, sadly, the “someone” still doesn’t understand, and in fact, thinks less of The Plan now that it worked, than the “someone” did before. And thinks even less of the planner.

It’s an interesting dilemma. There is satisfaction The Plan worked, but sadness for the hatred it caused. It’s time for soul-searching. Time to understand what means most in life. Time to suck it up.

Worst of all, here is the only place to tell the story. Hope you don’t mind a really, personal entry. If anything humorous comes to mind, it may break the gloom of the previous stuff, but don’t count on it. Every time feeling sorry tries to hijack my mind, The Plan, and how good it is for “someone”…pleases me. It’s like a yo-yo.

“What we got here is…a failure to communicate. Some (women) you just can’t reach.”

The lessen learned which might be useless this late in life, is doing the right thing might not make you happy. And write stuff down. Use charts. Bullet points. Hand puppets. Anything to make the decisions in life can be successful…for both. But isn’t divorce/breaking up normally better for one than the other?

Whatever. Remember the Black Box. It’s part of your work life, private life, and news feeds. Kidding about the news feeds…maybe.

And apologies, again, for TMI, but there are others going through the same thing, kind of, maybe.

Life. You gotta love it.

Why Now?

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Mysticism: a belief or experience involving a direct connection with the divine or ultimate reality, and can also refer to an altered state of consciousness.

No one really understands the brain. We’re close, but not close enough to mapping the 86 billion neurons making up an average brain. Add to the complexity, each neuron can have hundreds of thousands of synapses, or connections to other neurons. 86 billion times 100,000 equals…

So when someone says they have a mystical experience, what does it mean? Is it in fact a connection with the “ultimate reality” (safe way to include all deities), or is it a misfire, a malfunction of something in the synapses and neurons?

As a young man, I experienced episodes of “dazed happenings” lasting from 30-60 seconds. They were times when my mind went wandering and I let go, resulting in feelings of connection and “great peace” with the world. They faded with maturation but were never forgotten. I labeled them “Grace Periods.”

With the onset of The Calamities in 2023, and after months of drug treatments and radiation, the Grace Periods tried to make a comeback. Maybe. In the months following treatment, the “mind wandering” would start, but the first few times it continued down a darker path and felt like approaching death, so I fought the wandering and found my way back to “normal”. Subsequent UNC research revealed a name and possible cause: Orthostatic Imbalance from too much potassium. Limiting potassium and quick, body position changes ended the “Dark” wanderings

But as you can probably tell by my last post, the wandering has returned. And if the wandering is unchecked, the result is trees talk to me and there is beauty everywhere. God’s beauty, or the “Ultimate Reality’s” beauty. Its a funny thing (strange funny) to feel. “Things” disappear. Things like worry, anxiety, pain, the unfathomable, bottomless questions about “being”. All gone. Nothing but contentment. Not happiness, just a feeling everything will not just be okay, but it will be what it is meant to be. The wandering is still not understood. But, all is well.

As a senior citizen, my first understanding of why these things happen is the close relationship to death. Or closer, relationship of age. A few months back I wrote about a midnight revelation (See: “Whoa…really?” from May 10, 2024.) which may be related to the Grace Periods.

A rational, scientific mind could interpret what I’ve described as the misfiring of complicated bionic equipment and connections in an aging brain.

A mystical person, however, would revel in the evidence of a Grand Design from the Ultimate Reality, who has something fantastic in mind for one of His/Her/Its creations.

Maybe someday we’ll know but right now, both explanations sound right to me. Contentment is a wonderful thing, even if it’s not understood.

Pay Attention. Please.

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Years ago, I played tennis at a park surrounded by walking trails, swimming pools, and soccer fields. It was a beautiful place. One noticeable figure was an elderly, rail thin man in shorts and a backpack walking hurriedly around the trails with his two walking sticks swinging by his side. Why didn’t he swim or play tennis or disc golf, like the rest of us?

Socrates is given the credit for saying “the unexamined life is not worth living”. He said that, what, 2,000 years ago? Or more? But who does examine life?

I do. I’ve always paid attention to the world and where I fit or if I fit at all. My memory, is not eidetic, but details are noticed and often stick in my mind for no reason.

I watched The Price is Right the other morning. They have a game where a stick figure hiker climbs a stick mountain with every wrong answer by a contestant, until the stick figure falls off the top of the mountain and the player loses. That stick figure looked just like the old man walking from the past.

So what? As age has imposed its will, I’ve made adjustments: from singles tennis at a young age, to an aggressive doubles game, covering the entire court. Then to a doubles game covering only my half, and–at age 72–simply hoping to hit back any ball hit to me. At each stage the slow progression was apparent and the requisite adjustments made by design, with the knowledge someday…well…

When The Calamities hit last year, the requisite adjustment was to plan–and hope–for a life of walking. I’d always have my mobility, at least.

It was then The Price Is Right man from the past came back into focus and his reason for walking. I understood. And I am, now, at the stage of life he was, then.

One of the best things about being old and out of service is the extra time you have to examine life, to notice things. To pay attention. To learn. There is no longer any reason not to, except fear. But when I ask others if they examine their life the usual answer is “What?”, with the occasional “Why?”

None of it makes any difference, anyway. Whenever a weighty, important, monumental thought tries to invade my brain it also helps to remember this: in 150 years, everyone now alive on this planet will be dead and gone.

How’s that for examining life?