Time flies. Many of my friends are talking of how they are getting old, how they are losing friends and relatives. It all promotes a thoughtful turn of mind, a wondering if we’ve accomplished enough, if we’ve accomplished anything, what else we can do to make the world (or ourselves) better in the time we have left.
Should we pursue that goal? Should we follow that friend? Should we volunteer more, struggle more, or buy that cottage or tent and go relax and watch the sea? How many books can I read today?
I don’t usually waste my mental time on the fact of getting old. Having MS is a gift that way – we have no control over our day to day functioning so the getting old thing seems like simply another day. And I’m fortunate to be round enough that my wrinkles are pushed outward and thus invisible, mostly, so unless you see me late at night or first thing in the morning, I might pass for younger anyway.
But i do notice that old passing of time. Losing Lois Lillenstein was like a shove to the heart. She was so much a part of my children’s existence – we watched the Elephant Show together, bought their CDs, went to their shows. The kids sang and danced along. I still have their Christmas Album, where Lois does the best version of the Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy I’ve ever heard (“Starving for some brownies!”). I loved their music, too – unlike most kids performers, they used jazz and blues and just plain good music to tell their stories.
Seeing Sharon and Bram older, seeing them look so shattered at the loss of their friend, just echoed how I felt and feel. I am getting old. Little parcels of joy I once had are going away, to, I hope, be replaced by others.
But I’m still singing “One Elephant, Deux Elefants” and dancing to “Cool Yule”. I hope that when I eventually shuffle off this coil, I leave even one such smile behind.
Thank you, Lois. And Sharon and Bram. We have a bunch of smiles, thanks to you.