Freedom is a Myth

Several months ago, on a whim, I explored housing availability and prices in various places along the Texas coast. Later, I looked into houses on acreage in places as far-flung as Dripping Springs, Oklahoma and El Paso, Texas and Grant Park, Illinois…among many others. I am not new to this. This fantasy I cannot quite define, but that I know owes its existence to either fear or disappointment, has been with me for as long as I can remember. It comes to the surface with some regularity, usually when I feel overwhelmed with all of life’s options or stuck in a tiny cage of my own making. When I reach the point of deep disappointment with myself or fear that I am locked into inadequacy, I want out. I want to go away. Start over. Eventually, though, I allow my rational self to take control. I realize that starting over by tying myself to a place, whether on the coast or on isolated acreage, would be simply trading one prison for another. And, as I allow myself enough time and freedom to think, I realize it’s not just tying myself to a place. I would be living in a prison cell even if I sold everything, bought an RV, and hit the road. Always, always, there would be something dictating how I live, day by day. Whether that something is a mortgage, the need to appease neighbors in one way or another, or the need to stick to a route with accommodations for RVs, something would always force me to mold myself to the world around me; not vice versa. So, there’s no such thing as freedom. Freedom is a myth created by people who want desperately to escape from prisons that have no bars, no locks, and no guards. No one is unafraid; no one ever will be unafraid. Life itself is a prison.

The only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear.

    ~ Aung San Suu Kyi ~

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A friend made me aware of a piece of good news. According to NPR, “Terminally ill patients seeking physician-assisted death in Oregon, where it is legal, are no longer required to be residents of the state, under a settlement reached in a federal lawsuit this week.” It’s about bloody time. And it’s time to remove the geographic barriers to that fundamental human right of deciding whether to live or to die. And, while I’m ranting on the topic, the State should have no say, whatsoever, in an individual’s life-or-death decision. It matters not whether a person is terminally ill or not, in my view; a person should have the right to decide, at any time and for any reason, whether to go on living. I would of course discourage making the decision without giving the matter adequate time and external input; but, ultimately, it is the individual’s decision. Not the State’s. Not even the family’s. The decision belongs, in the end, to the individual. We’re all “terminal,”  so the decision is one that should be made on the basis of one’s level of comfort with different amounts of temporal distance. I am aware of many arguments against my position; none of them sway me. And none ever will.

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In less than three hours, I will visit my primary care doctor’s office. He will review the results of my blood tests with me. He will admonish me to eat better, exercise more, and visit my cardiologist. He may prescribe medications for me. He will not tell me I am terminally ill. I am relative sure of that. Even if I were, I doubt he would tell me.

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Today is a friend’s birthday. She agreed to let me take her to lunch in celebration of reaching her 59th birthday. There is no reason to stop celebrating the attainment of 59 years of life on this planet, even years after that point has been reached. So, we will celebrate the fact that she reached that milestone a while ago. Happy Birthday, D! Here’s to many more!

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There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche ~

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The tip of my proboscis is red and slightly swollen, thanks to a biopsy of a slow-to-heal “bump” on my nose, taken a couple of days ago. I will return on April 11 to visit with the dermatology APN. She will give me the results of the biopsy and discuss what, if anything, I need to do about the underlying cause of the bump; now more accurately described as a wound.

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Two days after my dermatology appointment, on April 13, we will attend a reception hosted by a group of local artists. One or more of the artists, one of whom is my next-door neighbor, will be honored with various accolades for their artistic talents and skills. That day, April 13, would have been my 42nd wedding anniversary. The reception, an annual event that my late wife and I used to attend at my neighbor’s invitation, will be an emotional event for the artists, I am sure. And for me.

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It is easy to recognize love. It is the state of mind in which one is willing to sacrifice one’s own happiness for someone else’s. It is the state of mind in which another person’s happiness is more important than one’s own. Absent that willingness, the emotion that masquerades as love is simply infatuation. Infatuation does not last. Love can, but it doesn’t always. Nothing is rock-solid reliable; not even life itself.

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I suppose it’s time to stop letting my fingers have free rein over the keyboard. Instead, they must make breakfast and such.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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