Don’t worry, I’m not terminally ill or suicidal. But I am a realist. When I was twenty, I believed that I had “world enough, and time,” as the poet once said. But as I close in on the end of my first half century, I realize that though death is (hopefully) not imminent, neither is it getting any farther away. So I tend to think about life a bit differently, and my priorities are being adjusted accordingly.
I’ve started thinking more about a thing’s importance than its urgency. Watching TV has dropped way down on my “to do” list, while writing has leapt into the top five. I’ve pretty much eliminated computer and online games in favor of reading. Attending writer’s conferences has replaced sunbathing almost completely, though I have been known to combine the two. Spending time with my husband and family was always in the top five, but even there, I’ve done some rearranging, moving it to the top of the list. And playing with Munch? Even writing plays second fiddle to that bit of starshine.
As far as I know, I’ve plenty of years on my ticket yet. This is simply my way of not going “gentle into that good night.” Don’t know about you, but I plan on raging until it is full dark. And then I’m going to light a lamp. There is too much joy and beauty in this world to do anything else.