I'm sure that many have considered the similarities between the
passage of a year and the passage of our lives.
It's easy to recognize the parallels, the year and we are "all promise"
in January and "all passion" in Springtime. Summer is the time of productivity,
growth and accomplishment, with time to look back with pride come autumn.
Pride with career, with family, and with ourselves in maybe just having survived.
At sixty-one, I think that I am in my autumn. And my not being sure is
one difference between a year and a life: the year has a calendar,
a guarantee that a Tuesday will follow a Monday, that November will
precede December and that there will be a new start with the New Year.
We, on the other hand, are given one calendar, one life, AND, with
a life, there are no promises. When I was young there was seemingly no end to
the pages, an unwieldy bundle, at least. Now, in my November (or is it
December?), I am "all hope" in the awareness of an approaching end. Any
page can be the last, at any age. There might be a warning that there are only
a few more weeks, but then again, maybe not.
I didn't know the definition of "mortal" when I was young, then, in
my middle years, I discovered a need for "immortality" and strove toward
it. Now I've dicovered the fallacy of that discovery and merely hope to be
remembered, but still fear being forgotten, which will be, realistically,
my ultimate fate.
I must admit I don't care for the idea that most of my life's years are behind
me. I'm a bit scared not knowing how long I have to finish whatever it is I'm
creating. But then, I've never known how many pages were left in my calendar,
and never cared 'til now. I've been too immortal for too long.
I'll never be ready to find the last page, but when I do, I know that I'll be "all
done" at last.
Updated: 3:23 AM GMT on December 06, 2007
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