You know, I've never in my life been more aware of the fact than I am at this particular point in my life that every moment that passes is one more that will never come back around. I've often thought that we humans - or most of you humans out there that are like me, anyway - seem to cruise along for the longest time as though we think we have forever here on earth. In reality we all have a finite amount of time, and nobody gets out alive. Who said that first? Bob Dylan? Will Rodgers, maybe? Could have been Capone, I suppose. But I digress...
I was drawing a picture of a dragon in one of my sketchbooks a week or so ago. Dragons have always been symbolic of one thing or another in the churning laundry that is my imagination (where sometimes I use too much soap and the suds go everywhere). Anyway, I started writing, following around the outline of the sketch. What came out was this:
"The thing to remember," said the dragon, "is that once you turn the corner, the corner is gone, and that even if you insist upon going back to find it, it cannot be found - only a corner similar to one you once passed. For the eyes you look with will ever be older than the eyes you saw with, and the wake of your passing will always bring change to the past of your path."
"Then how do I return home?" said the boy.
"You don't." was the dragon's soft reply. "For returning is simply what it says: re-turning - turning again. Enough of that and you're just walking in circles. If home is truly your wish, then you must find it in front of you - just ahead, around the next corner..."
The corners keep coming, whether we want them or not. They are inescapable. Katrice and I are certainly not so far from a big one of our own. Last week we went in for our 'genetic counseling' and the second sonogram. The genetic counseling part was a little anxiety-inducing, but honestly seemed relatively routine. That is up until the very end when I mentioned the fact that I was born with six fingers on each hand, and six toes on each foot. That's when the Doctor said "Hmm - well, that actually might show up again here..." Of course, after everything else she had just told us about I quickly decided that if six fingers was the worst thing that happened, genetically speaking, then bring on the digits and let's have a party...
The sonogram part came next. This time the apparatus they used was much more what I expected, as opposed to the first sonogram, for which the technician used a, well, um, an unexpectedly, uh, shaped apparatus used in - uh - an unexpected fashion. I swear I must have been sitting there with a question mark floating in the air above my head that day and those little parentheses on either side of my eyes like Charlie Brown gets sometimes. Let's just leave it at that, shall we? Good.
Anyway, in came the nurse, squeezed a pile of blue goo on my wife's stomach, then picked up a little square doohickey and proceded to smear the aforementioned blue goo all over her stomach (my wife's, not her own - although, come to think of it, that would certainly have been interesting - but I digress). The monitor had the typical unrecognizeable (to me, anyway) static-y stuff all over it, which by the way I am mystified as to how those doctors and nurses navigate. Seems kinda like trying to walk through the house with all the lights off wearing sunglasses with vaseline smeared all over the lenses. Then suddenly, out of the fog, there it was - this little human shape. No more sunflower seed, folks. This time there were arms and legs and fingers (that I tried to count, but to no avail). I swear it even had Katrice's nose.
That was amazing enough as it is, but then - right then as I was watching - it moved. Waved it's little arms around and arched it's back. Boom - around the corner we went.
At that precise moment, in that dark little room, I felt the rest of the world simply cease to exist. There was me, my wife, and this little person made from the two of us up there on the screen that somehow, incredibly, was somewhere inside my wife's body. That's it. Just us. It was a sensation unlike any other I have ever experienced. That's all I can say.
Somewhere back in a very small part of my brain that wasn't sitting there speechless with it's mouth hanging open - like the rest of me - was a familiar feeling. A version of the color-shifting sky feeling (see the previous post if that doesn't make sense). A feeling along the lines of "I don't know what I was expecting at this point in my life but I don't think I could have ever anticipated this...", with just a dash of "God, I sure hope you know what you're doing..." and a smidgen of "that is so - freakin' - COOL..." thrown in for good measure. It was the odd feeling of life moving forward under its own power - in motion, completely independent of me.
That's kind of how it is though, isn't it?
Life/time will move forward by itself with no influence or input needed from any of us. That's what it does, whether we are part of it or not. But every morning we get to decide: do I float along like a leaf in a stream, or do I jump in and swim around a bit, exercise what choice I do have when I can, do some things for and with other people that are worthwhile, and have some fun while I'm here to boot? It's not always as easy a question as it seems like it should be, if you ask me, and moments do come where floating along is the best thing to do - or at least the best we can do at the moment.
At this moment, I'm not 100% sure if I should be doing a little floating, or thrashing about wildly like a bathtub full of olympic swimmers after way too many cups of coffee. So I think I'll go fix that broken sprinkler head in the front yard until I figure it out.
I'll get back to you...
