As I sit in my sick bed, riddled with a respiratory bug, I can't help but think that one hundred years ago, I probably wouldn't have lived to tell the tale; pneumonia was not an easy disease to overcome. So I wonder, did people in those days live their lives more fully or more in a hurry so to speak, since their life spans were notoriously shorter and they had to accomplish their life callings a lot quicker?
At this point in my life I've come to realize that, although my accomplishments are few and insignificant compared to heroes and other superstars, I am content. I don't believe in "bucket lists," but in taking opportunities as they present themselves, in making the best of any situation. I believe we all have a purpose for being, no matter how small, no matter how banal it may seem. Sometimes that purpose is not fully revealed to us in our lifetime, but as with "It's a Wonderful Life," I feel there is no telling how the world we inhabit would be different had we been taken out of the equation.
So I guess what I'm trying to say is that even if I died today, I'd be proud of, for instance, having raised two great kids, wholesome kids, principled kids, kids whose presence has already enriched the world in many ways. But don't get me wrong, I don't pretend to take all the credit for their greatness. One, as a parent, can only plant the seed; the rest is up to them. I will, however, take credit for planting the right seed and planting it correctly. On good soil. With good sunlight. Plenty of irrigation and fertilizer. By God how these trees have grown!
My mother died at 52. Much too soon. I wonder if she realized her life was well lived.