That Beautiful Horizon
I’m dying...
Not today, but soon—the reports are in, not documents, but body language.
My body speaks when lounging in the recliner is too exhausting and bed seems to be the only relief and waking up is a jolt; my dreams were sweet with the vibrancy of youth.
My days of sowing wild oats have changed to a serving of oatmeal. The madcap years of seminars, workshops, and how-to learning have become a moot point. Now my zeal now is heaven-bound. As a song must wind-down, so must a life.
My steps are slower, shoulders are bent, and the body looks like a coral reef of cherry bumps. My hairline is thinner, but whiskers of wisdom line my soul. I could not sell my body parts, even on the Turkish Black Market: arthritic shoulders, knees, toes and thumbs.
The fervor when I wore the foolish shoes of a younger woman have changed to the practicality of oxford-style comfort footwear. However, there is consolation that my heaviest trials are behind me and my cross gets lighter every hour. Of that, I have great joy.
The squeezing of a pimple leaves a permanent imprint, as if my DNA has dozed off. Relief comes when younger volunteers do the tasks, and the thrill of a rollercoaster ride has become scary.
The pressure of civility is over with the entitlement to toot and belch at will. Sadly, the rudeness of an older body carries no shame. The first letter of words are disappearing: tee instead of Dee, binge instead of hinge. My panorama vision has shrunk to a small lens view. Still I have joy.
It takes a genius to recall my immaculate housekeeping days. Now the magnification on my glasses is not strong enough to see mile-high dust. Fret not. I found a solution. I place a shovel the front door. Yet, I have great joy.
Once I was the master of multi-multi-tasking. Fade-away energy changed that. Unfortunately, the mind is always younger than the body. Two-minute chores take one hour while time evaporates with three-hour naps. Still, I have great joy.
My dogged, pontificating viewpoint has given way to the wisdom of the self-confidence of a secure theology. Beside, although I am Swiss, I now think as an Italian. “Oh well, so the painter used the wrong color.”
I am battle weary and ready for my Purple Heart. Being closer to when St. Peter smiles and stretches forth his right hand for a welcome shake excites me. I am more excited than five hyenas in a chat room.
The endless thirst for the mysteries of life have mellowed. Boiling down all philosophies into the soup of Truth: the thickening ingredient is to love God and fellow pilgrims. Giving love is great joy.
My entire life I have been waiting to celebrate Christmas at Jesus’ birthday party. Will there be streamers, balloons, clowns or a cake? Will Santa stop by for his presents? I want an orchestra-level seat with the angelical choir.
I do not mind my heavenly birthday since my present is a lavish mansion. What a joy.
The most important thing that I know now is that that beautiful horizon belongs to me and I have great joy.