Before I heard of the earthquake and tsumani in Japan today, I was doing my volunteering at a local art gallery.
Back history - life is often too short. I know too many people who have died way before their time. I have been concerned, as of late, with death. I've felt like I've been working against a deadline. That I had to push myself to complete my book in case I died. I know, probably stupid - but there you have it. When I have been hit by the loss of folks dear to me, my Irish ancestry takes over. All kinds of 'trouble' are considered likely.
I was talking with the gallery's curator about the subject. She chastised me. Heartily.
A juried show was opening tonight. She took me around the gallery and showed me the pieces. This one done by an 86 year old. This one by an 82 year old. This one by a 74 year old. This one by a 70 year old. There were only two pieces by under 30 year olds.
I've often thought of Whistler's Mother. Why do I think I can't be around for a long time? Why can't I write until I'm 92?
I've got to 'let go' of this madness and concentrate on the joy of living and the joy of writing. And the joy of life.
Life is good - and probably will be long, too!