I’ve been waving goodbye to my fading life. I am watching the vitality drain out of what used to be me, and I am becoming unrecognizable. An inexorable force is working on me, changing my shape, attitudes, energy and dreams. The past has grown more firm as the present has grown more tenuous. This is a source of grief, as I witness my life receding, and a source of wonder, as I remain. What is it that holds me here, growing more naked, as on the day of my birth?
I am a sensitized remnant of a human life, a leftover piece, a memory of a being in process. Maybe now, when I have no flame remaining in my soul, no passion to fulfill, no work to do, I am more than I have been. I can intuit another life, one that is not filled with anxious doing. One that carries the peace of not having to be anything. I can coast into that possibility. I am being pulled into it, some seductive force is acting like a tractor beam, drawing me towards a peaceful emptiness. All that is left for me to do, is go for the ride of being carried along.
I have been grieving the life I am losing. Staying faithful to the values I once lauded. Hunkering down, trying to stay true to what I thought mattered. I have only known a long — enduring disappointment — as the world has spun farther into space, becoming something unknown.
I am no longer caught up in drama, I am free to dither, to be unplugged. I lament the loss of who I have been, shucking off an old cocoon, and lingering here in some kind of featureless terrain. Pondering, as I keep moving, sliding along under the power of mystery. This coasting is a grief-tinged wonderment. I am not without life, but it is like a life I’ve never known. Sadder, wiser, spirit-haunted, and mysterious.
Coasting sounds like it could be fun. It’s like being on some kind of ride — no energy required. I’m old and energy-less enough that it sounds just right for me. I’m used to being a passenger, to being taken places. I think that’s what is happening now. I’m being taken some place. It isn’t where I have ever wanted to go, but as I am falling apart, I’m becoming more spacious, and less concerned.
Coasting isn’t a desirable outcome to one who has always thought one had to earn their passage. I’m not making this happen. I get no credit. Desirable or not, a product of my doing or not, I am being carried along squalling, with the same kind of unknowing terror/wonder, that is present at all birth. I’m just in that phase where I can sense the waterfall ahead. The ride is already eventful, even if the main event is not here yet.
What is coming isn’t here yet, but I am. At least what is left of me. In the meantime, I’m coasting toward it, and learning to not value myself for pulling the whole thing off.
