Time rushes to replace moments that should have been preserved. When fond experiences exist only in memories, we cling to lies we’ve been told: that now is better than then; that new is better than old. But familiarity fits like bespoke clothes, sewn from custom fabrics woven for us; every seam stitched with soft threads that conform to who we were and who we have become. The difference between being stuck in the past and living comfortably in the here and now involves the transition between them. Those among us who struggle to accept change treat it like replacing a wardrobe of old sweats with stiff, starched denim overalls. The rest of us treat change as if we were upgrading from sweats to soft, weather-worn jeans. Ach! A simile that attempts to equate one’s choice of clothing with one’s ability to adapt to fundamental change is profoundly superficial. That is especially true when trying to address an even more crucial matter: preservation of what matters in an environment in which adaptation to change honors the importance of the foundations upon which today’s environment was built.
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Mistakes that cannot be corrected can be treated as lessons or as wounds that will not heal. Or, as is often witnessed, they can dismissed as meaningless stumbles that should have no bearing on a person’s ability to fully enjoy life. Mistakes made without subsequently feeling regret for having made them tend to compound the damage caused by the original misstep.
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Another follow-up with my oncologist today. Lab work and IV fluids. A reminder of the fact that cancer remains a defining part of life. I would rather write a psycho-fictional essay-short-story that explores my thoughts about the experience of being human in an inhumane world—or about experiencing life as a sentient sub-sea member of the plant kingdom. Or, absent pursuing those opportunities, I might prefer to sleep.
