Reflection on Mortality

37 will go down in my personal history as the year aging officially began. I hate to say it, but it's true. This year I've begun to realize that I am not, in fact, going to live forever. I know. It's a surprise to me as well.

It's not like I've contracted a major disease or anything. It's just that Thomas now has ear wrinkles. You know those little vertical lines where the ear attaches to one's head? The ones that indicate that gravity is winning? Yeah, he has those. I probably do too; I just can't see them. (God is good in some ways, isn't He?)

But I do have the beginnings of old lady face. You know where the last traces of baby fat (or adult fat for that matter) have left and the bones begin to protrude grotesquely? I saw a picture of myself the other day that proves I am beginning down that path. I suppose that wouldn't be so bad if the said fat hadn't taken up new residence on my waistline. My waist may altogether disappear in the next few years. I'm trying to stop it, but it doesn't seem to care.

The point I'm making is that I am seeing undeniable evidence that my physical body is not immortal, and it's kind of freaking me out. It's also causing me to behave irradically, which, in turn, is sort of unsettling to my spouse. One night as Mr. Wicke and I lay curled up on the couch watching a movie, my head resting comfortably on his chest, I became acutely aware of his heartbeat in my ear, that rhythmically ticking machine that is our life force. And with each beat I wondered, how many are left? There is a finite number of beats in a heart. Boom, boom, boom...three more gone. I wanted to grab them and stuff them back inside to stop the unstoppable march toward the end. Instead I began to cry. Just two quiet little tears that would have gone unnoticed if I hadn't accompanied them with, "Don't leave me, okay?"

This new realization is frightening, but perhaps, too, it can be enlightening. The other night as I read Madeleine L'Engle's book The Summer of the Great-Grandmother I found this:

"Our lives are given a certain dignity by their very evanescence. If there were never to be an end to my quiet moments at the brooke, if I could sit on the rock forever, I would not treasure these minutes so much. If our associations with the people we love were to have no termination, we would not value them as much as we do. Human love is an extraordinary gift, but like all flesh it is corruptible. Death or distance separates all lovers. My awareness of my husband is sharpened by impermanence. Would we really value anything we could have forever and ever?"

Maybe this new awareness is a gift. In my childishness I took time for granted. I didn't recognize moments of grace, assuming they could easily be repeated. I think I know better now. 37 may be the year when aging officially began, but perhaps it can also be the year I really began to live. I hope so.