Mortality

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which is, I have been recently reminded, for me and not just all those other people.  I want to be like the bronze statue of the dancer I bought when I was feeling a bit flush.  There she is with her leg perpetually raised in a dance, her hands ready to clash the cymbals, her head turned to laugh at the spectators.  For how many decades did I hop around, run up and down stairs, walk for miles in my dear city, the blocks flowing under my feet without hesitation or fatigue.

I am am prone to joint problems.  It’s in our family and I have always thought it not such a tragic flaw.  Fixing joints is like carpentry, after all.  How lucky I am, I thought, not to have to deal with breathing problems or digestion, or heart.  A hip, a knee, easily fixed and forgotten.

The body doesn’t want to be forgotten, though.  Most of the time, it has insisted I pay attention as it gives me pleasure.  All those posts I make about seeing something new in my garden, or smelling blooms, or hearing wind rustle the leaves close to me are brought to me through my senses, my body.  And all those other pleasures of eating, and sex, and drinking cold water, falling asleep, shedding a few tears…all channelled to me through my dear body.  In that way there is no separation between body and self.

But now I have pain.  Never mind that I brought it on myself, carelessly lifting something too heavy.  It dogs me, follows me from the first waking moment until I sleep.  It refuses to,be calmed with pills or rest.  And here is the new ” secret”.  Age is tempting my body to betray me.  Soon my caprices, my whims, my good judgement, my sound decisions will not play the music. My body insists. “You had your way long enough.  Now it is my turn.”

I will trick it with exercise, and good food and doctor’s care.  But in the end, in the end, the watch in the bottom of the picture will win out.

So……I’d better make the most  of things!  Start the music and let’s dance.

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