The Real Truth About Aging & other writings. . .
Robin Williams died yesterday, of an apparent suicide. He was a comic genius who gave countless laughs and memories to millions. Yet, he had been battling severe depression of late. This post is dedicated to him, and the many artists who live with an acute sense of perception and are tormented by their demons. . .Too long have we indulged the frightened one, standing on the shore, afraid of drowning in a sea of love, afraid to let go of old grievances, old habit patterns of mind that have not delivered what we'd hoped. What if there is no place to arrive? No nirvana apart from samsara, no heavenly chorus welcoming us home, no cheering bodhisattvas at graduation into the second or tenth or thousandth level of Reality? What if this breath is enough? this moment is enough, these tears of sorrow or joy are enough? What if tomorrow never comes because life is always now? What if we simply stopped! -From "Too Long" by Dorothy Hunt
THE REAL TRUTH ABOUT AGING
The real truth about aging is wrinkles on the forehead where once the terrain was smooth; unsightly age spots on a hitherto unblemished complexion; a spidery web of veins on formerly flawless skin.
The real truth about aging is that if one is so inclined, it is important, nay, mandatory, to have your dermatologist on speed dial. Next to the handy dandy number that indicates your plastic surgeon's 24-hour phone line.
The real truth about aging is the self-knowledge that you can get married; get divorced; have kids; survive their terrible two's and their terrible teens; watch a parent die, and still find yourself perched on the edge of a whole new and different adventure.
The real truth about aging is the confidence that no matter what curve ball life throws you, you can smash it out of the park. Because you've looked death in the face; you've teetered on the brink and, yet you've lived to tell the story. And nothing but the whole story.
The real truth about aging is that you still don't know what lurks behind the closed door. It's a roulette game you have no control over. The one that spins the ball wildly, unsteadily, uncontrollably. When it's heedless dancing comes to a rest, the black dice has rolled under what charming label? Hard to decipher; impossible to comprehend. Arthritis; cancer; decay; disease; or, death.
The real truth about aging is that my knees are older than I am, and I hate it. The real truth about aging is that there is no real truth. Time is closing in on me, forever chipping away the ground beneath my feet.
The real truth is that before I go, I need to torch the naked photos taken on a wild summer night in a charming hill town called Simla. The real truth is it was the first time I kissed a boy, the first time I drank so much I threw up all over him, the only time I've been twenty-one.