There is a written list on my kitchen counter, compiled before I left, each item checkmarked across the board—a list completed. I had reminded myself to unplug something or other, to remember to take my pillow, to turn off the water, and not to forget the coffee maker (whatever you do).
I remember that when I left my house I was closing the side door, and I glanced back at the hallway and kitchen and thought, before I know it I’ll be back here again.
You can start to see how quickly time passes as you get older. Days still pass as days, and they may seem long or short, while years and even decades, and great epochs of time like the whole of high school, compress into something like an old photo in a wallet that you seem to have misplaced.
When I left for this trip in late January, I didn’t have a specific checklist of adventures. I knew I’d see my friend Joel in Texas, and that I’d then leave Texas. I’d see the ocean, and then I’d leave it behind, eventually trading sandy beaches for the still snow-saturated and increasingly muddy grounds of the midwest.
It’s funny how this particular period of time, more than two months, already now seems to contract itself into some small, manageable unit that my mind has neatly categorized, along with many others, as “that thing I once did.” Still, our past experiences and their accompanying memories, I think, do act as new soil for our minds. My little excursion is a new foundation, some richer compost that is now ready to fuel the next garden. More flavorful habaneros are likely on the way.
At the end of every life’s checklist is that last little box, the one that someone else will have to mark for you. Whatever days you can imagine, up to and including the day that is the end of your life—they will arrive. All those years and decades, those countless experiences. And just before that last day does arrive, I think the past will seem so small, so compact, so neatly tucked away in your mind that it will be slightly unreal.
But on that last day, I imagine that you release all your days and all that each one entailed, and that you let yourself drift away among them, shapeless but inseparable, until what is left is just a feeling—that most important function of a mind—a fondness, so that what you leave behind is your love and light. At least that is my hope. There’s no checklist for a life like that.
Issue: Twice today I’ve tried my camper key in the door of my house. It’s strange how quickly habits can develop, another way for the mind to find shortcuts, to create patterns. I think it’s good to not let patterns form too deeply.
Issue 2: I’ve had a lot of cough and cold medicine and feel a little loopy, a little buoyant, and a little introspective. This post and the previous one probably reflect something of that.
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