So, today I turned 75. Not as happy as I might be, except I am still alive and I am still married to Sharon, whom I love dearly.
No guarantees. Blood test next week for my CLL. No covid protection even though triple vaccinated and whatever. Immunochallenged among other things. Then off traveling. All life could be a crap shoot, but my dice don’t have all the dots, so I cannot feel all that comfortable.
Meaning for my life might emerge from my struggles, past/present/future to self-actualize, a forceful effort I alway had to make to avoid injury, restraint and violent recriminations. Not having a loving family served to constantly create obstacles and no relief. Lucky I had some friends along the way who weren’t overly critical. So what if I eat lettuce with my hands and sip soup out of the cup; what are fingers and mouths for?
Personally, I always tried to live meaningfully, not knowing what was right or what to do, always looking for answers, sometimes in Judaism, sometimes in art and not enough in Emily Post or the Code of Judicial Ethics.
The answer found in Monty Pythons, The Meaning of Brian is enough for today,”“Well, it’s [the meaning of life] nothing very special. Uh, try to be nice to people, avoid eating fat, read a good book every now and then, get some walking in, and try to live together in peace and harmony with people of all creeds and nations.” People will disagree about whether I did this, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t try or won’t.
I see you.