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That’s me, bushed at the end of a long day of cymbal playing. Yes, I do want that jug of wine, just pour it down my throat.

I’m having one of those reflective days, days when you recognize that you are amazingly lucky to be alive. No, no near death experience, but it’s occurred to me in the busy-ness of living, that well, one might stop and at least appreciate that one is still walking and breathing.

Yesterday I was headed off to the pool and then grocery shopping when I was rudely pushed off the interstate by the police. After traveling along the front street known as the Bataan Highway, I came upon what I expected–an awful horrific accident.

An accident so bad that the freeway had been closed in both directions while police did their best to work out how this had happened. One look at one car told me that there were fatalities. The roof of one car had been sheared off. Nobody much survives that. Turns out it was a woman and her son, hit by someone who crossed the median, went airborne and hit them apparently high enough to take off the roof and most of the front end.

It gives you pause.

The woman was doing nothing but driving when suddenly her life is over in seconds. It must have been instantaneous. Not much time to reflect on a life lived well or ill.

Today I was at Mass (being one of those Catholic things–we call them Masses of Obligation). A man passed out. The EMT was called. They didn’t take him so they must have concluded he was okay.

Again, I reflect.

As I arrive back from Mass and the pool, I hurry into the kitchen and spend thirty minutes creating a meatloaf. Then I rush to the bedroom and fold the clothes from the morning’s washing. I’m running out of steam. It’s been a busy day.

But I have reflected.

I’m busy almost every day. Strangely, it’s okay mostly. I’m by nature lazy. I do most of what I want. Working on a quilt, making a lacy mat for a chair to protect it from my head, making a new recipe here and there, cleaning, shopping, swimming, walking, reading, never enough of that. And don’t forget the wife things. Connecting, discussing, laughing, touching.

Diego enjoyed Halloween. The kids all love him. “He loves everyone,” one little girl proudly told her friends. “He likes to be petted.” Diego did enjoy the attention, though what he thought of the strange mixture of firemen, princesses, witches, and Star Wars soldiers, I have no clue. We met neighbors, we waved, we threw candy into buckets. We had strung “cobwebs” across the front. Some of the littlest tricksters were a bit wary. They had to be prodded–“Say trick or treat”, parents intoned. And they did.

One or two were already being carried by dads and were nodding off. They would find the candy more exciting in the morning.

The older kids brought round the younger kids and then got together themselves and sheepishly returned to beg for their own sweets. As one tweeter said, “About 47% of the kids who came to my door wanted handouts.” That figure sounds about right.

It was fun. We enjoyed it.

I reflect.

And return to the kitchen to check on that meatloaf and the gravy, and to get the potatoes going, and the green beans, and then I’ll read a while, and sew a bit, and well, you know the routine. It’s probably a lot like yours. In the generalities of course.


Lived, living.