Writing daily is a joy, a ritual like yoga that clears the mind. Random thoughts, mere wisps, float like motes. By writing, the motes are somehow fixed. It slows their gentle descent to oblivion. Perhaps that is why writing is an essential. Ironic that the motes are fixed on something as ephemeral and virtual as a blog and an iPad.
Mortality is very much in focus, not just the funeral of the late Richard 3, a process almost fabulous even including the relationship of Benedict Cumberbatch. I anticipated dying aged sixty. ‘Will you have achieved all you want by then?’ A friend, well past his 60th, asked when I voiced this.
I hadn’t thought in philosophical terms, or in any depth at all.
The Boxer, sometime feature of the blog, is coming up to 94 and this winter survived pneumonia with accompanying dip in kidney function. She was, as medical parlance has it, ‘off her legs,’ for a while. In fact she was off everything. Surprising what takes a dip, mobility, digestion, cognition. The return to health is wonderful to see. She will never be fully on her feet of course, as she counts her laboured steps to the bathroom with the aid of her trusted Zimmer. ‘Only 59,’ She announces as if amazed by her achievement. (Hers is a tiny bungalow, the bathroom at most six strides from her chair in the living room.) Sadly, too she is delightfully vague, unable to account for hours of her day, unable truly to focus her once fearful intellect but intermittently her old self and still loving life.
I’m uncertain what it says of character, this will to achieve, to survive even at 94, or what my assumption that life for me will peter out soon, but would agree it needs contemplating.
As for writing, that too may peter out, but perhaps will be enjoyed whilst it is and I am still here.