Delay No More

Flight delayed, an hour before departure, which seems metaphoric, symbolic, of the last six weeks, six months, six years, six decades of my life thus far: I’ve been in motion, stalled, a blur of quickly snapped iPhone images that document people, events, moments, but never saturates into the meaning, the purpose, of anything. It all goes by so quickly like the subway ride from Queens to 57^th Street, stand up, sit down, rumble, rumble, the woman with the knitted pink pig hat gets off, replaced by the unshaven young guy with a snowboard. No one looks at each other. No one talks. Most are hunched over a phone, ear-plugged, transfixed by idle distractions. 

I was here in the NYC winter-that-never-ended, witnessed the birth of my dear sixth grandchild, tried to help, tried to reassure baby’s brothers and sister that they are still the center of the universe in their grandma’s eyes, eyes that are increasingly narrowing with etchings of age. 

That’s it, that’s the muffled soundtrack playing in the background: The aging process and what it does to a person, not just physically, but spiritually to us seven-decades-approaching Class of 1974ers; we have officially breached the dugout of youth and are now sizing up health statistics, following doctor’s orders, taking statins and blood pressure medicine because we’ve entered the “serious shit” phase of life. Suddenly us almost 70-year-olds become aware of quality of life parallels with our deceased parents and realize that our stop watch is, despite mild hearing loss, ticking louder.

What does it mean? Why does it matter? I encouraged my eighth grade English Language Arts students to ask these questions as we analyzed impactful literature and non-fiction texts; who knew that one day I’d apply these archeological questions to my own life? And so soon?

Writing helps me figure stuff out, which I haven’t done for far too long. Painting has the same impact as the watercolors wander across the page, discovering new versions of its hue. 

Always, I’m composing, reflecting, wondering—even without the vehicle of my journal or a laptop. 

               Do I matter? 

               Did I matter? 

              Will I matter? 

             Does any of it matter? 

Of late, I’m not entirely sure. Of anything. I keep questioning: What’s next? Where should I be? 

I want to be in so many places, but here I sit at the airport, delayed.

When my mom was my age, she wasn’t. She died a horrible death from emphysema. She suffered health wise for so many years. She was such a giver, rarely making time for herself. I wish, I wish, I wish, we had had more time in our later years to hang out and get to know each other; love, just love, with no expectations or responsibilities. The same thing is happening a generation later; my adult children have such full lives; there’s little time left in the day for simple Mom and Me conversations. I get it, just as my mom got it, but now that I’m approaching that decade that means you’re really old, you realize the preciousness of time. We ain’t got all that much of it left.  

My friend Julie and I tear up at the thought. So does my cousin, who has already crested the big 7-0. The reality is hitting. 

My friend from church, Lucy, died this week. It sounds like she knew death was imminent and prepared by leaving her friends and family a note on her Facebook page: “Though I am no longer here in person, please know how much joy you brought to my life. There will be no formal memorial service; instead, I ask that you honor my memory by being good to yourselves. If you feel like giving, the best “charity” you can support is your own well-being and your own family. Take the trip have the dinner and hug your loved ones a little tighter today for me.” 

Did she know, I mean how could she, that I was hesitant to book a bucket list trip to Down Under because of the long flight and the cost? Fear was paralyzing me. 

Even in death, Lucy was teaching me. The last time we were together was four years ago at our mutual friend, Joanie’s house, enjoying a beautiful lunch in the garden. Essentially, she advised us to, “Get on with it. Stop delaying your life.”

A message from heaven, and maybe a message to you as well as I sit in my delayed state of being, typing, thinking, once again parachuting into the next chapter: Adventure. 

I declared to my daughter before I left that I’ve decided to go to Australia and New Zealand in May, my birthday month. Then every year for the next decade I’m going to do something out-of-the-country/comfort-zone brave. 

Delay no more.