Tag Archives: Awakening

The Greatest Generation

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(It is not lost on me that Tuesday, November 11, is Veteran’s Day. I posted this blog over two years ago in lieu of Memorial Day. I have never forgotten the experience, nor the man, and felt strongly about sharing it again. I will pick up my figurative pen and post something more on Tuesday in honor of our veterans.)

An elderly man was pushing his shopping cart through the check out and I didn’t realize that I was blocking his exit. His white hair was neatly trimmed and combed into place. I noticed that although it was spring, he was wearing a flannel shirt. It looked as if the tags had recently been removed as it appeared new. Work pants completed his outfit. His cart contained two boxes of Cheerios and a bag. He politely let me know that he was trying to move around me and I stepped to the side. With a smile I asked him if he had a license to operate his shopping cart.

What I thought was a humorous passing comment opened a conversation that I didn’t anticipate. Not knowing if he misunderstood my remark, he chose to tell me that he was 99 years old and has been able to maintain his driver’s license. I didn’t get a sense that he said it in a condescending way but rather with understated pride. I could see that he was someone that didn’t take his independence for granted.

Although I have played our conversation over in my head several times, I am still unable to remember how he introduced the fact that he was a veteran of WWII. He was an infantry soldier and it has left a mark on him that is evident to this day. Ironically, he was soft spoken, yet his words suggested that during those years he experienced hell on earth. He spoke of the heat and the bugs and how collectively it had played havoc on their health. There was no relief at night as they slept on the ground and the morning dampness only added to the damage to their skin.  However harsh the environment might have been, it played only a small part of what they contended with regularly. His battalion saw heavy fighting and heavy losses. With pride he shared that there was a monument erected as a result of their service.

If he shared the particular information identifying his battalion or the actual location where he fought, I don’t recall. I do feel I heard what was important. Here was a man who selflessly put his life on the line for what he believed. I had been given the perception that he questions why he was able to survive when so many others didn’t. He has done more than survive as he anticipates celebrating his 100th birthday by the end of summer. He has had many years to reflect upon his life and what his purpose might have been as he made his way on this journey. After our conversation came to an end he smiled and said he was going home to read his Bible.

I don’t know who this man is and I am certain I will never see him again. I know nothing of him other than what he chose to share. I have no name to identify him and no way to congratulate him on his anticipated 100th birthday. He could say the same of me. Yet the universe felt it was necessary for our paths to cross. An elderly man was able to share a part of his life that was traumatic yet deemed necessary. Although I was a receptive audience, I look at myself and wonder what the purpose might have been.

It might be natural to think of the greatest generation during this Memorial Day weekend. How many of that population never had the opportunity to grow old? They experienced the Depression and made it through to the other side. They did their part in the sky, on land and sea. For those not serving, they kept the home fires burning with ration books in hand. They raised families where many of their offspring let their hair grow and questioned the necessity of war. Yet this resilient group of people continued to move forward. Every day their numbers dwindle and their lives full of service and sacrifice go with them. I felt like I was given a gift to have a window into this stranger’s life. By accepting this gift I feel I must pay it forward. I chose to make payment by honoring this individual, those like him, and most importantly, those who gave their lives. This blog doesn’t scratch the surface of recompense for their sacrifice but it comes with a profound sincerity.  

Exploring

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I don’t know why I was there. The house, although still furnished, was no longer inhabited. It was clear that no one continued to call it home. It stood silent, an interior that once must have boasted a vibrant past, one full of life, now stood quiet as dust collected on every surface. Exploring buildings of this nature was not a normal activity for me. Long gone are the days that I provided disaster relief and had to enter impacted homes in order to assess and validate the damage. This house didn’t tell a tale of disaster but rather sadness. I didn’t fear my safety from a compromised structure but I did feel uneasy. The sun didn’t provide much illumination throughout the rooms and apparently there was no electricity.

Entering the hallway, I saw a large opening into a room. I took notice of the wooden pocket doors at the entrance. They were tall, thick and still in working order. I didn’t attempt to close them but someone I was with took steps to pull them together. Just as the doors were closing, I noticed a figure move inside the room. It had the shape of a human but with the swift movement I couldn’t tell if it was a shadow or an actual person. Either way I believe we were given proof that we weren’t alone in the house. The movement startled me. As the pocket doors were coming together, I was conscious that I held something in my hand. I chose to ward off any harm that might beset me by throwing it into the room. There was no time to aim with precision but my gut instinct was to show that I was aware of their presence and I would take steps needed to protect myself. As the doors were within a foot of closing all the way, I threw the object toward the doors and heard a crash.

It was then that I woke up, safely tucked in bed. There was a soft illumination in the room as the television was on. It gave me enough light to notice that the noise in the room not only startled me but also woke my cat. Her head was up, staring in the direction where we heard the crash. Instantly I knew that I had been dreaming. It was obvious that I had quickly fallen asleep while checking out whether there might be a program that I wanted to watch. I still had my glasses on and they were propped up on the tip of my nose to allow my focus from that angle. What was missing was the remote. My right hand was empty and I swiftly recalled it was the same arm I used to throw the item in my dream, the one I used to keep myself safe. I would check for damage in the morning and locate the remote. The cat and I both settled back into a peaceful sleep. If I explored any other houses in my dreams, I don’t recall.

Dreams have always held an interest for me. I have understood that they exist so your unconscious mind can explore solutions for various issues while you sleep. I have yet to explore what the frightening exploration of that house might mean. No matter how many times I have checked into the meaning of my dreams, I have yet to find a resource that gives me a definitive explanation. Upon retrospect, I imagine that is the way it should be. We are all individuals, exquisite and special in our own right. No interpretation would suit everyone. I will continue to question the meaning of my night time visions but revel in the dreams I enjoy during my waking hours. Those are the ones I plan to fully explore, the dreams that provide my guidance to the future.

Cheated

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I believe in life after death. I don’t share that to impose my beliefs upon anyone. I do so to explain the basis of this blog and why, after a certain experience, I felt cheated. I believe in eternity and that life goes on in an energetic or soul-based way. I know for certain this is the result of being raised in a Christian home. In my case, the veil has always been thin and I know the presence of loved ones, those who have gone before, are not far removed.

I have had procedures and operations that had me flex my faith muscles and pray that I would be healthier when coming out on the other side. Never did I expect a routine examination to bring me close to crossing the line. There was a time that I hadn’t been feeling well and a friend offered to drive me to an appointment. The facility wasn’t close and I was grateful that I didn’t need to deal with the distance and traffic. Upon our arrival I left her behind in the waiting room and made my way to an examination room. I don’t recall exactly but I am sure I shared my recent health concerns with the doctor. At some point during the examination, I see darkness enveloping me and the room. Before all this darkness beset me, I faintly remember hearing the doctor ask me if I was okay. Without warning I went into sudden cardiac arrest.

While I was under, the doctor frantically called for a crash cart. He was new to this location and didn’t know where this equipment was kept. He began chest compressions on me to keep my blood circulating. My friend, still sitting in the waiting room, was aware that an emergency was taking place down the hall. In her wildest imagination she could not have envisioned that I was the one causing the commotion. The steps that were taken were successful. My heart beat was restored and I regained consciousness. As I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a group of people that were not there when the darkness enveloped me. I felt stunned and awkward. I was informed of the events that took place and the group of people, staring at me so intently, soon dissipated.

Once totally revived I was given time to recover and become more alert. As time passed, I began to wonder if my episode could be considered a near death experience. It saddens me to think that my encounter only offered me a solo trip into darkness. My parents weren’t there to tell me I had to go back, there was no bright light, and there was no out of body experience. I felt cheated. Where was the warmth and love others have expressed upon their return? I do not have a death wish and am grateful that my cardiac arrest was reversed and I didn’t suffer any lingering effects. Still, I wonder. Did I not meet some critical threshold that would determine if I had almost died. I don’t want to think, when the reality of death should occur, that it brings a dark void. It goes against everything I have ever believed. Maybe this was not a test run and possibly my feeling of being cheated is misplaced. I don’t want to tempt fate and feel it is wise to leave this to be continued, hopefully far into the future.

Iron Man and Rusty Tears

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Those who have been fans of Ozzy Osbourne might recognize the title of a Black Sabbath song and make the assumption that this blog is a tribute. That could easily be a misconception as I was never a fan of Ozzy’s. Heavy metal, head bangers and biting bats never had a place in my life. As a teenager, behind my bedroom door, my orange stereo with the polka dot speakers would play a more mellow genre of music. I think my brothers might have thought about planning an intervention to lessen the grip of Elton John and have me give equal time to some of my other favorites. Without admitting it, my brothers’ constant guitar riffs might have been a way to drown out my selections. Again, Ozzy was never found among my choice of James Taylor, Carole King and the harmony of America. So now, upon his death, why do I find myself crying?

The media has been inundated with Ozzy’s life story. Unless you have been living under a rock, there has been no way to miss the good, the bad and the ugly. He has led a life of extremes. He is not the only one who has fallen down as a result of addiction and infidelity. His language was salty enough to make a sailor blush. Yet when others have walked these paths, they are not the fodder of major news stories. Ozzy’s mistakes were made on the world stage and the admissions he made were just as large. What I missed by avoiding his music and reality show was the man behind the entertainer. It turns out the Prince of Darkness was actually a generous and loving family man. He especially relished time spent with his children and grandchildren. Is the Osbourne family unique? In many ways, yes. Who among us find cameras following our every movement? I am certain there is no one in my circle who boasts the same balance in their bank accounts. Yet, even as a proverbial rock star, he appears to have been very human.

I have been wondering why I, so new to all this information, have had such a strong reaction to his death. I sobbed as I watched the family make their way to Black Sabbath Bridge. Their pain and loss was so clearly evident in their countenance that I believe anyone would be hard pressed not to be moved. Seeing this video repeated several times over brought the same reaction. I had an overwhelming feeling that my tears had been stashed away, lying in wait for the appropriate time.

Tears bring us into this world. A mother excitedly waits to hear that first cry. Childhood tears can be the result of skinned knees. Those that might make themselves present during the teen years can express hurt feelings from not being accepted by a certain social group or maybe a fleeting first love. Adult tears may be produced from an entirely profound depth. The tears I found coming so easily to the surface due to Ozzy’s death were unexpected but still profound. It’s as if they were rusty, returning to the surface deep from the well. There are those, like Ozzy, who leave something tangible behind for the world. That is countered by the reality that fame and money can’t buy you health or a longer life. Then there are the rest of us who were also given the precious gift of life, whose lives might not be as grand but are every much as important. Life is fleeting and there comes a time when do-overs become rare. If I have learned anything from Ozzy’s transition is the importance of doing what you love. Now is the time. With this knowledge I will wipe my tears and instead give a salute to Ozzy and be a Dreamer going through Changes.

More Than Skin Deep

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What you see is what you get. I have finally made it to the time in life where I am not chasing fashion trends. If the truth be known, I don’t think I ever spent much time in that category. I have reached the stage where I choose to dress for comfort.  Some might say I look like a grandmother, although I am not one. My hair is gray and it is a simple style that doesn’t require much upkeep. I am well aware that I carry more weight on my frame than I should. I dress like my mother did. I don’t shy away from pants with elastic or embroidered tops. I prefer flats to heels. I have never had anything so important to me that I would sit and endure hundreds of pin pricks for a tattoo. My only piercings are the single ones in each ear lobe. Translated: I would like to think I am relevant but my appearance doesn’t equate to being cool.

Before I retired, I had the opportunity to work with a new hire. She came in as a manager and it was my responsibility to mentor her. I worked for a behavioral health organization and we were very accepting of those who felt comfortable in their skin and often marched to the beat of their own drum. The new manager fell into this category. Her style of dress was a bit on the goth side. I don’t recall seeing her in any color beyond black, deep purple or navy blue. She had invested her time in piercings and tattoos that exemplified what she found important in life. She had a verse tattooed around her neck and try as I might I could never read the entire script. Finally, I had to ask her what it said. I share this with you so you can picture the two of us working together. To say it was enjoyable, was an understatement. There was a camaraderie that formed quickly. What could have been a challenge was never an issue for us. It wasn’t long before we learned we shared an interest in the paranormal and an appreciation of Freddie Mercury.

It may be cliché but you truly can’t judge a book by its cover. I was in the yarn aisle of a craft store and found myself in conversation with another customer whose appearance greatly differed from mine. She had bright pink hair and several piercings. She brought out her recent project and explained she needed more of one of the colors. She was there trying to find a match. Together we went up and down the aisles comparing colors and blends. I have heard that in the future handcrafted items will be a thing of the past. I thought it was refreshing to see a younger woman be so accomplished in crochet. Another recent trip I did come across an actual grandmother who shared some commonality with me. Through our conversation I learned that she had been assisted by the disaster relief agency where I had once worked. She also mentioned she was interested in having her grandson receive services from the agency from which I had recently retired. It makes me smile to think about what pleasant conversations I might have missed if we hadn’t reach out to one another.

These encounters also bring to mind the good fortune I had of working with another staff member who called me her work mom. Although we are different races and generations, we developed a close relationship. We do share the same values and appreciation of family. Once she asked me how old I was and then declared I could actually be her work grandmother! I have learned that being judgmental could rob me of welcome experiences. Additionally, I am grateful that others have been open minded to see that I too might just have something of interest to share, something that goes beyond skin deep.

When Dad Speaks

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My father has been gone for more than half my life. Every so often my mind wonders what it would have been like to have had him remain longer in our lives. My thoughts don’t allow me to have him age although in reality he would have hit the 100 year old mark by now. In my imagination he would still be able to perform those handy man tasks that were common place. More importantly, I could ask him questions about our family or his youth, things I wasn’t prepared to ask earlier in my life. Once again, I could hear the soft southern accent that he never lost.

Years ago, when traveling to New Orleans, my father came to me in a dream. I recall he was wearing his dress blue Naval uniform and we were at the mobile home where we had spent a summer. We were there only temporarily as he was recruiting in a town far removed from where we called home. At some point in my dream, I became aware that death had robbed me of his presence and I clung to him. With tears in my eyes, I begged him not to go. I soon woke up and realized I was sitting upright in bed with my arms outstretched, tears still flowing. I could feel his arms around me. Although I was more than grateful for the visit, I realized he didn’t speak. Comforted by his presence, I wanted more. I wanted to hear his voice.

I hadn’t given it much thought growing up, but I never heard my parents argue. My mother commented, after his death, he never raised his voice to her the entire time they were married. I am not so naïve to think that they didn’t argue but it wasn’t something that we heard. In reality there could be a deafening silence until things were settled. My mother was the main disciplinarian and you knew when she was angry with us. My father would remain even keeled when he was making a point, advising me when I had done something wrong. He would tell me what he thought and then finish his comment by saying, “you know”. His simple comment would have a devasting affect on me. I felt so very small. I did know, I knew not to repeat the transgression.

Very often, as I share my thoughts in these missives, I don’t hesitate to reveal what lesson I might have learned along the way. With the advent of technology, we now have the capability to record the unusual and exciting to the mundane. I wish I had the opportunity to record some of the ordinary things that my father would say to me. Would I have had the foresight to record him when he would ask me to put my pinky in his glass of ice tea, just to sweeten it a bit? Would I have known that I would miss his rendition of the Shake and Bake commercial when the little girl would say, with a very pronounced southern accent, “And I helped!” I continue to feel the love and the longing for my father and I wish I could have preserved his voice. I would love to hear Dad speak one more time. You know?

One Is Not Like the Others

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My brothers and I were transplants. When our father left Georgia, as a young man, he was never again to make it his home. He met our mother in Philadelphia. We would live there until Navy recruiting duty would have us move. We left a metropolitan area and moved to a small town whose livelihood was centered more on blue collar employment. It almost felt like we were in our own little bubble. We didn’t live close enough to spend holidays and special occasions with our extended family and our celebrations found us together, as immediate family.

I always thought we were a pretty tight family unit. Although we were not carbon copies of each other, there was still evidence that we were family. Our childhood memories are the same, incorporating the same neighbors and friends. Although we may possess the same facial expressions and laughter, our independent natures eventually did emerge. Two of my brothers are tall and blue eyed. They favor our father’s side and are both talented musicians. My other brother and I favor our mother. He was always the athlete in the family and in later years has developed an eye for photography and other artistic endeavors. It wasn’t until recently that I realized that our lives have led us down different paths and we are far from being the same.

It was a startling wake up call to realize that although we were raised with the same values, as adults, our belief systems have gone in different directions. I have come to learn that it can be wise to stay away from the topics that are considered taboo: politics and religion. Although I consider myself independent and one who thinks for herself, I have always felt comfortable following in the footsteps of our parents. It wasn’t forced upon me; it was a natural choice. I will admit that as adults, my brothers and I have led different lives. Professionally, socially and education wise there was nothing cookie-cutter about the paths we followed. I feel rather naïve to admit that it wasn’t until the past few years that I have come to recognize our differences.

Although our mother was a constant in our lives, she must have perceived differences in us. When her time was growing short, there were issues that she felt were important to discuss. She expressed her concerns, that being her only girl, that I was not in a relationship. It would have eased her mind to think that after my divorce there was someone to take care of me. I believe her concern was the result of a generational norm. Ironically, my brothers have all been in relationships and I still bristle at the thought of losing my independence. Her main request was that I would ensure the family stays together. I promised her that would not be an issue. She never shared what she thought could cause a division. Upon her death there were no squabbles about her estate. It is not lost on me that in today’s politically charged environment that families are being torn apart. I would never allow that to happen. I love my brothers too much. We were brought up together on the same foundation and the same blood courses through our veins. I will celebrate our connection and accept our differences. Most of all, I will keep the promise I made to our mother all those years ago.

Beyond the Veil

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Sometimes gifts come when you least expect them. I could say that was the case with an addition to our family. My brother had fallen completely head over heels with a pretty cashier at the local department store in which they both worked. He had dated plenty of pretty girls but this was different. I knew she could hold her own with my family the first time I met her. Our home life had always been full of teasing, laughter and banter. Our father was the one who tested the waters. My brother made introductions and my father made a comment, something on the order of her not being as ugly as my brother had stated. Much to her credit, she didn’t run in horror. Obviously, our father didn’t mean it but most would have rethought their situation. She hung in there and passed a test that I am sure she never expected.

She was to become the sister I never had. Our personalities differed yet it never stood in the way of our relationship. We became so close that I often dropped the “in law” portion of her title as my sister-in-law. She felt like blood and it made no difference that she was a girly girl while my roots were that of a tomboy. I was there for her as I knew she was for me. She was my safe confidant.

Realistically, we know that it is natural to lose our parents at some point in life. Hopefully it is later than sooner but we acknowledge that it is natural progression of life. Although I have dreaded the thought, I know that I am at the point in life where contemporaries are making their transition. I would like to bury my head in the sand and say it isn’t so, but it would be a lie. Life progresses and family, friends and their spouses are lost. It is even more heart wrenching when the loss is dealt to someone young.

Though there are many memories of my sister-in-law, one in particular was how every holiday, birthday and anniversary would be celebrated. It could be a card or it could be a gift, her thoughtfulness never failed. I assumed that would all be gone with her death. As I left the hospital upon her transition I noticed a new jet stream in the sky. Looking up I told her to fly high. She was no longer encumbered by illness and it seemed appropriate that she would be soaring heaven ward. I can never view a jet stream without thinking of her. The week of the first anniversary of her death I looked up at the sky as I was leaving the house one morning. I was overcome by the number of jet streams and a cloud that took the shape of an angel.  Even in death it was clear that she was still observing days that held special meaning. I received a gift when I least expected it.

My parents have been gone for some time now but I found love and support in abundance with my sister-in-law’s parents. They would join us at holiday meals and it would make the day complete. Within two years I would lose them as well as my sister-in-law. There are three empty seats now around the table when we gather for holidays. Memories are kept alive and I found that as the recent Christmas season approached, she was often in my thoughts. On Christmas day my brother brought out a bag that he had come across in a closet. It has been two years and he has been in the closet numerous times but this was the first time he noticed the bag. Inside was a gift for me, a necklace, earrings and bracelet. She continues to touch my life. Again, sometimes you receive a gift when you least expect it.

Gifts

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I am fortunate to have a group of friends who I meet with on a regular basis. We gather at least once a month for dinner. We have named our group of five, Sages. Collectively, with several years under our belts, we have learned life’s lessons and feel as if our moniker is justified. My brother kiddingly refers to our events as hen parties but I recognize the importance of our gatherings. In my mind, it feels like we have always been together as a group. I don’t think I am exaggerating when I say we consider each other family. We are there for each other yet our gatherings are also a gift we give ourselves.

It has become routine for one of our group to open their home over the holidays and we enjoy an evening that begins with a delicious pot luck dinner followed by conversation and laughter. Prior to this year we had exchanged both birthday and Christmas gifts. Honestly, we are at the point in our lives that we are not in need of much and no longer exchange material gifts. Tangible items are not as important as the support we freely give one another; it is the best gift of all. It might be a busy time of the year but spending the precious commodity of time with one another makes for an excellent present.

I’m not sure if it is our culture or human nature but it does seem part of our holiday tradition to try to make this time of celebration special. We plan, we purchase, we take the time to find ways to show our love and care for those who mean much to us. There comes a time that those celebrations shift. It could be the result of death, illness or a move out of the area. I took notice of those who were suffering from serious illness, knowing their celebrations would not be like those of the past. Even though preparations weren’t complete at my home, it didn’t seem to matter. I made plans to visit those whose health was challenged. Unfortunately, one individual made her transition prior to Christmas and I didn’t get to see her. Another lesson learned: in giving the gift of time, don’t allow yourself to wait to act upon it.

There have also been sources of happiness that creates the reason for a visit. A friend recently had her fourth baby. The afghan I crocheted was going to be my main offering but I felt I wanted to bring something for the other children. Maybe Dunkin Donuts wasn’t the healthiest choice but it was well received. Planning another trip, closer to Christmas, I again wanted to bring something down for the children. I had the sensation that my company was appreciated as much as my small tangible gift. Not expecting anything in return, I left with a heartwarming token. It appears I might have moved into the role of surrogate grandmother and if that is the case I am filled with joy.

I can recall my mother often saying that our house might not be perfectly clean but she felt she was doing what was more important. She spent time with my three brothers and me. Upon reflection, I was given the gift of a wonderful mother and role model. I will give her the praise for allowing me to realize that the most important gift one can give another is themselves.

Sail On

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One of my friends is ill. I could extol her many outstanding virtues and characteristics yet there are other thoughts that sickness brings to mind. Those thoughts are like clichés, sailing through. Without being boorish, I would like to share a few revelations that have recently come to me.

Collectively, there is truth in the statement that none of us are getting any younger. When I look back at my youth, I can recall the dreams and aspirations that I held. Although my friends aspired to be teachers, nurses, nuns and mothers that was nothing I desired. I did go on to marry and have a son and I hold him as my greatest achievement. That is a role that is not fulfilled by everyone as we have our own path to follow. Although I envisioned my calling within the field of communications, my professional life lead me to work within nonprofits and local governments. I feel my accomplishments are many and I don’t regret the time spent supporting our communities. Now that I am retired, I have no desire to return to any of it. There are no do-overs. That ship has sailed and I am not getting any younger.

When I was in the market for a house, after my divorce, my criteria was rather simple. I envisioned this purchase to be the home in which I would retire. I was looking for one floor, with an area for laundry and a large dining room to hold my family for holiday meals. At the time my realtor explained that being so particular about a dining area might not be very practical. It most likely would not be a room I would use on a regular basis. I would accept none of his guidance. I saw myself as a very social being, with holidays being the ultimate gatherings. It is fair to say that I am satisfied with my dining space but all the entertaining I envisioned is more history than future planning. The plates and serving pieces I acquired aren’t currently being used. My holiday gatherings are smaller now that death has robbed us of several of our loved ones. Due to my chronic illness, fatigue is often a constant companion and I am no longer inspired to entertain. I do hope I find the energy and resolve to clean out all those unnecessary serving pieces and pass them along. Elaborate and laborious proposals have given way to simple gatherings for holiday meals. That ship has sailed and I am not getting any younger.

In retirement it has become blissfully clear that trading time for wages is no longer the norm. In many ways, time is my friend as I am not bound by schedules and alarms. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t aware that my senior status reminds me that a larger portion of my life is behind me rather than ahead. Yet I am allowed to give myself permission to enjoy my time. If a book’s subject matter intrigues me, I am permitted to take the time to read. If God paints a beautiful sunset, I am allowed the time to sit and let the colors envelop me.  When I find a skein of yarn calling to me I can find the time to employ a crochet hook and start creating something. If I am consumed by a group of videos on YouTube there is no issue in watching them but I must remember that portrays someone else’s life and I still need to continue to live mine. Living mine translates into not putting everything off until tomorrow, a day not promised. Realistically, how many of us are ever ready for that ship to sail?

I have often thought of the wisdom of Erma Bombeck in dealing with this topic. Excuse my poor example of paraphrasing, but she was correct in her nudging to live life and not wait for a special occasion.  Now is the time to use the good china or burn the candle. Again, in thinking of illness I find it to be a humbling adversary. Now is the time to pick up the phone, send a note and share a meal. I know that I, in honor of my friend, now choose to live intentionally. I don’t want to be standing on the dock, looking out over the horizon with the sinking feeling that the ship has sailed, this time without me.