We are all alive, moving, speaking, writing, reading, building, complaining, celebrating, destroying…not in any particular order. Here I am using “we” like I know about you as well. But I don’t know about you.
I am usually in the question of “What am I doing here anyway?”, after accumulating 75 years of breathing, heart beats and moving around.
I look and act younger than my years. Sometimes I have “survivors guilt” due to my hard earned good fortune in the realm of appearance and health. The guilt is driven by my early learnings that “children should be seen and not heard” which gives me some comfort when I think I should be sharing what I do to stay healthy. Nobody will listen to me anyway. And maybe it is just luck or astrology or my genes that has me enjoy the blessings of my life.
It may also be luck, astrology or genes that has me understand the value of exercise and mediatation for one and one half hours each day. “Divine intervention” has been credited for my not having any alcohol or marijuana for over 35 years. Tremendous fear has motivated me to seek out extended fasting, mountain climbing, Hellerwork and Chiropractic over the years.
Hypochondria may be a divine gift or genetic or astrology driven but I think it is more me wanting to be Superman. A pure comic strip driven ego trip. The Landmark Forum, Therapy, various churches, temples and practices have been very helpful in driving my obsession to be Superman. A little bit of the Lone Ranger is also in me as I really prefer to not be noticed(too much)(noticed, yes, but not so much that I would be held accountable for my super powers)
I pride myself at being a mediocre golfer who occasionally hits an amazingly good shot.
“Are you playing golf tomorrow or working?” Patti says. She had to yell a bit from the bedroom to my man-cave meditation room.
> I am sitting on the cushioned futon with the lavender scented candle sending light and some smoke to the tapestry hanging on the wall imprinted with the large elephant. My Macbook Pro lights up my face with a gentle reflection on the mirrored closet doors. I am in Levi’s with long sleeved black shirt, bare feet and a truss around my lower abdomen to keep my open hernia intact. I get surgery next week. Trying to be Superman at age 75 by lifting weights has some obvious hazards. The doctor, when he noticed how old I was and what I did to tear the hernia said with some sarcasm, “Jim, we do not have a diagnosis code for ‘stupid”. The truss has become part of my underwear attire for some time now. The only sound I can hear right now is the voice in my head mimicking what I write…with a little bit of tinnitus in my deaf ear. The pressure in my digestive tract holds the chronic undercurrent of unrealized tension of potential I hold. Cookies or some kind of comfort food seems to settle this for a time. Part of my cookie I had been eating has fallen on the floor by my feet. The 5 second rule has long passed as I write so I leave it there.
“No golf for me tomorrow Patti,” I respond, “I get to work with people. I love my work.”
The cookie piece on the floor fits right in with the carpet pattern.
I think I’ll leave it there.

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