What is it to be alive?

Normally we do not like to think about death. We would rather think about life. Why reflect on death? When you start preparing for death you soon realize that you must look into your life...now...and come to face the truth of your self. Death is like a mirror in which the true meaning of life is reflected"

Sogyal Rinpoche

                                                                                                                                                
And looking in my mirror, what do I see? 

Yes. A silver haired person in transition from childless mother to older wise woman (or crone, I guess). But I still see that young person who set out full of optimism and hope on this life's journey. I see the lines of age and experience etched in my skin. I see the laughter bubbling up and feel the excitement and energy alive in my body just right now as I set out on the next stage of my journey.

I'm at a major crossroads in my life, with many new roads opening up, and not sure yet which one to take. What I do know is that I want my future to be far more about relationships with the earth, with friends and with lovers than  about earning vast sums of money.  To do something I love,  to be with someone I love, and to share the company of friends - this must be the goal.

The Thirty Favorite Lives: Amager

I woke up every morning on the fourth floor,
in the two-hundred-year-old walls made
of plaster and river grass. I would leave
the woman and walk across beautiful København
to the island of Amager. To my small room
in the leftover Nazi barracks that looked out
on a swamp. Most of the time it was winter.
I would light my hydrant-sized iron stove
and set a pot on top, putting in hamburger
and vegetables while the water was getting hot.
Starting to type with numb hands. The book
I planned to write in two weeks for a thousand
dollars already a week behind (and threatening
to get beyond a month). Out of money and no
prospects. Then the lovely smell of soup
and the room snug. I would type all day
and late into the night. Until the soup
was finished. Then I would start back across
the frozen city, crunching over the moats,
loud in the silence. The stars brilliant.
Focused on her waiting for me, ready to fry
sausages at two in the morning. Me thinking idly
of the ancient Chinese poet writing in his
poverty, "Ah, is this not happiness."

 
Jack Gilbert from "Refusing Heaven"