“My country ride was good for me. To see the brightness of the colors. To listen to you and Carl talk. It is sad that you have to be told that you are running out of time to see and enjoy that which has been there all along.”
That was the last journal entry from my mom to me. She wanted me to have all of her writing, including her volumes of journals, when she died. I recently pulled her last one from a box that holds many of her writings. I held it tight before opening it, knowing that each time I see her handwriting, hold something that she has held, I break. This journal in particular melted me from a man into a child, weeping for his mother as if I fell down and skinned my knee and waited for her to pick me up and comfort me. I sat on my patio looking at the date, the sequence of events that led to that date, and felt alone. I felt overwhelmed knowing that she is no longer here, at least physically.
I read over and over the last couple of sentences that she wrote: “It is sad that you have to be told that you are running out of time to see and enjoy that which has been there all along.” Those words haunted me as I sipped on coffee from a mug that also held my tears. I felt this way because I sat hoping that my mom could have had more life to live. More life to be aware of and notice, recognizing how each moment is precious, one to be savored like a fine red wine. Then, I was flooded by this clear reflection of my own life and reread the words wondering, making sure, that I was not waiting until I was told that I was running out of time before enjoying, recognizing, all that is right before me. I immediately thought of my wife, her beauty and grace, and how fortunate I am to be her husband. I thought of the landscapes that I have seen in my lifetime, and the simplicity of staring at a wildflower along a dirt path that seemingly holds all the secrets of life. As I sat there I wondered if I am living for my purpose and am I staying true to my beliefs and virtues? Am I the man my mother wanted me to be and the one my wife needs me to be? Certainly, I am flawed but at least I strive for goodness, kindness.
My mother’s words, “Running out of time,” screamed at me through the paper and ink and I closed my eyes and grasped the sides of the journal and proclaimed once again that I will not wait to live my life, do the things that I must to feel whole, alive, before my time is running out. I will love and write mediocre poems about my wife’s blue eyes. I will search, non-stop, for the most majestic trails to walk on, and I will try to show kindness as much as I can. It was in my mother’s words that I felt this need, this urgency to live my life, but more than that, experience it.
As I sat there, looking at her fading penmanship. A once beautiful penmanship but tired hands will struggle to hold a pen and work it like the literary sword it once was. Her words ended on the page. They abruptly stopped, leaving me wanting more, just like when she died. I wanted one more conversation, one more hug, one more everything. Then, I realized that we left nothing undone, nothing unsaid and used our time well. That is what is needed, to use time well. To have deep conversations and drink it all in.
I wonder when my last breath comes, will I have lived a life of exhausted laughter, absorbing all that was needed to fulfill my soul? Will I have found that perfect flower on the perfect wooded path? I believe I will.
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