A cold has me a bit under the weather. A drippy nose irritates my throat and responses only marginally to my antihistamine, leaving me with a cough. Not covid or bronchitis. I don’t even have a fever. There is nothing about my health to make a common cold more than it is. Yet I feel like doing absolutely nothing. Inertia reigns. I rage against feeling so blah. I don’t have time for this.
Ah, that’s the problem—time. Such a simple construct, really. This way of marking our passage through life in our corporal form, not sure we have any other form but for the sake of argument, I’ll stay with our physical form. The sun shines in a blue sky while cardinals, bluebirds, and Carolina wrens flit about the feeders. Despite the sun, it’s cold. After all, it is winter.
Which brings me back to time. Is this the winter of my life? If so, when did fall change to winter? What is this winter supposed to be? How long does a person spend in the winter of their life? Of course, one could look at life expectancy tables and come up with a number. There are so many variables; they render any number meaningless for those of us trying to figure out life. As usual, there are no answers waiting to be pulled out of a box. It is best we don’t know the number of our days.
But to be honest, I have to admit to being in the winter of my life. I have certainly had my time in spring, summer and fall. But winter does not have to be static. Like the birds, I will enjoy the sun while it shines. I will continue to write, work, and visit family and friends. Maybe it would be wiser not to engage in swim noodle sword fights or dance too enthusiastically with the grandchildren as they recreate dance scenes from their favorite movie. My balance is not what it used to be. Still, I will greet each day with enthusiasm. Make the most of it I can.
So, all of this is really about acceptance. My age does not define me
but limits me in some ways. I will accept the limits only after I have challenged them. To be honest, I will continue to rage against the limitations. Unlike Eliot’s Prufrock, I will not go out “with a whimper”. It is the challenging and raging which marks me as alive.