The news of Patrick Swayze's cancer leaves me thinking about my own mortality.
No one lives forever, and I'm fairly confident that I don't want to be the first person to do so. I'm not concerned about leaving a mark after I am gone, because everyone leaves a mark. It is safe to say that the world is different simply because I am here, as it is also different because you are here. People will remember us for a time after we are gone, but memories are fleeting, and no legacy is eternal. So I don't subscribe to the hubris of a monument of some sort that will stand the test of time. It's more important to live well while we are here. Having said that, there are things I wish I had done, and things I still hope to do.
I am a creative sort and I have had the great fortune to touch others via that gift. Whether it was through a joke I told, a story I wrote, or a role I played, I was allowed to take people away from their normal routine for a moment, and I am pleased and grateful for that. Still, one thing tops my list of things undone. I have not yet become a published author. I hope I can make that happen, and I hope that if I succeed, my creations make things a bit better for those who find them.
I regret not having learned to play a musical instrument. I did play clarinet briefly in junior high school, but I was no Benny Goodman. Of all the instruments that speak (sing?) to me, the guitar is the one I'd most like to master. I played the guitar in a play once, and I learned a few very basic chords well enough to fake my way through a few tunes. It was soothing, and I was surprised at how quickly I grew to love the feel of the strings under my fingers. I miss it.
I've always been afraid of change. The unknown leaves me feeling distinctly uncomfortable, and as a result, I have become a very rigid person. This robs me of the joy of spontaneity and the thrill of discovery by chance. Serendipity is the coolest thing, but it can't happen unless you open doors and embrace flexibility.
I very much want to sky dive before my death. Hopefully, if I get the opportunity, it won't be the event that causes my death. I imagine that the wind rushing past my body will be quite a sensation. It will be an invigorating chill, almost as if my entire body had been immersed in a delicious, frosty mint. When I close my eyes, I thrill to the image of the world seen from far above. It's a beautiful thing, and as the earth rushes towards me, breathtaking detail begins to take shape. It's as if I were on top of a painting by Seurat, the dots morphing into splendid landscapes as I move away from the canvas. What an experience that will be.
There's more to do, and more to detail, but right now there is one thing and only one thing that I want. I want my wife beside me in bed, the rhythm of her breathing, the rise and fall of her chest and the smell of her hair all wrapping me in a blanket of love and devotion. This simple thing, like all of the above, will happen.
It's just a matter of time.
