Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.”
― James Joyce,
Five years ago I was farting my way through grad school.
The plan was to graduate with a Master’s degree in educational administration and become a principal.
I didn’t really want to be a principal. I wanted to be a writer. But I did want more money, more prestige and a better parking spot.
Then I got sick.
Doctors found a hole in my brain. One doctor told me I should be dead.
I cried. I drank. I grew distant and despondent.
And then, in my most desperate hour, I dropped out of grad school, started writing. Which, consequently, saved my life.
Shakespeare believed that every third thought should be about death.
Though I don’t prescribe to the Barb’s frequent morbidity, I do believe a frequent acknowledgement of our mortality is a healthy practice.
Death is waiting in weeds for all of us.
We can choose simply to ignore him or when we need a little perspective– call him out, lock eyes, and realize how little time we have to do the things we were meant to do.