Last Monday

I was thinking about Kevin's post and about how he and I are comparing and contrasting our morphing experiences.  Neither of us is under any mistaken impressions about whose life change is more drastic or challenging.  Kevin wins that dubious honor.

Still, we're changing our identities out of varying degrees of choice and necessity.  Kevin's not a couple, although his pants are still full.  I'm not a professional specializing in family therapy, teens and chaotic families any more. . . and my pants are not full.

All this thinking about change made me want to post about how good it feels to be middle aged and to be upright and able to make intentional change, to take risks, to make decisions.  Wanting to post made me think that I had finally bought batteries and that I should go take some new pictures flowers in the exploding yard (Danger!  Exploding Yard!).   Then I could post about middle age and limitless vistas of change.

 I put the new batteries in the camera and started to focus on the pansies potted on the porch.  This choice was for Walker, who is concerned about my flower-picture hobby.  That and my preference for Mint Mojito Orbit gum make him very worried about my manliness.  The camera warned me that the batteries were dead.  My new batteries were "dead."  This means that the other re-chargable batteries may not have worn out after all.  Maybe my camera is worn out.  Dammit!  Again!  Same camera!  The camera was originally damaged, I think, by one of these young hooligans.  They were making videos.  I suspect the camera inadvertently became on of the props.

My camera must be diagnosed.  I can't take pictures of the lovely flower exploding (Look out!) on my lawn.  I am frustrated and limited.  I'm a middle aged man and my gadget doesn't work like it used to. 

Easy come, easy go, eh?

We're always thinking about adolescence as a time of great change, but I think Gail Sheehy had it right when she suggested that we are all moving through a series of passages, and we all negotiate them, time after time, and the change simply does not end.  We evolve, redefine, push our limits or recognize them.  Sometimes we recognize a passage as such.   

Sometimes we pass and only know it after.  

The last push on a swing, the last whispered "I love you," the image of the peak of a musical career in the rear view mirror driving away from Telluride, the last bit of sage advice, the sound of musical laughter,the feel of a hand held, all things are finite and must be relished.  They will be spent.

Squander them.