This is not a post about Millennials or Generation Z. When I refer to “Youth” in the title, I am referring to someone under the age of 10.
Well, under 9. My granddaughter Ramona, the youth in question, is just coming up on eight and a half years old.
So, jumpstarted by youth. I could say “inspired,” but “jumpstarted” is more accurate. …
Dying Is More like Using Leftovers, Preferably Well
Blame it on Sylvia Plath, who in her poem Lady Lazarus, wrote:
Is an art, like everything else.
When I was sixteen, I was enthralled with those lines and, indeed, that poem. At 64, having outlived Plath by more than three decades, I still admire the poem but am far more skeptical of her pronouncement.
Dying an art? Sylvia’s assertion aside, my take on death, as I move closer to it, is I’m dealing with leftovers.
I was raised in a working class family and leftovers were a staple on…
As I get more serious about my end of life, I look around and realize just how much stuff I own. If I ever published my personal essays, I would totally copycat my title from Roxane Gay: Bad Minimalist.
I am intrigued by minimalism and try to incorporate some of it into my daily life. I love watching Anthony Ongaro on YouTube. I’m not a rabid consumer. I avoid malls. I don’t shop online. I deliberately and conscientiously stopped conspicuous consumption years ago. But…
I do not listen to Joshua Becker. I am not a Marie Kondo acolyte testing every…
My life with an incurable, progressive cancer now in its 15th year is always shifting.
It is almost (almost) easier — after so many years (15), after so many appointments (hundreds), after so many blood draws (beyond count) — to say out loud, “I now know what dying feels like and I now know that I am starting to die.”
I said that very sentence to my husband Warren over breakfast, much to my surprise and shock. And then I could not speak, because my voice broke and tears ran down my face.
Tears of longing and love and, damn…