My dad once said that when you get into your mid/late 50s your friends start to drop around you, unless you’re one of the ones that drops.
It seems to me that cancer has been inordinately lethal among my group, but perhaps that’s just how it is. For many people around the world, and in the past, it’s not cancer – it’s purges, disease, war. I know that the world has been like this, for most people, forever; I just got lucky to be born where and when and what I was. As climate change begins to bite worse, I don’t think that the US will be as safe as it expects. Walls are pretty easy to get around. When the wheels come off, things get bumpy. Right now, I feel as though the US has actually lost one of its wheels, but the car is careening along just fine until someone turns the steering or stomps on the brake. That feeling of careening about in delicate balance surrounds me these days. My friends that have died – they were cruising along just as pretty as can be, then suddenly they were in the ditch, their lives changed irrevocably. From one day to the next, things were going fine and then they were in a struggle for their lives.
So, that’s my thought for the year: I’m incredibly lucky, but I’m not special. Nobody is special.
Thinking you’re special is a mistake that leads to other mistakes. The other stuff is all random.