And sometimes, we get to be who we aspire to be.
That thought came to me this morning, seemingly out of nowhere.
No clear cause. No particular context.
I’m home now—from the skilled nursing facility.
No more being poked and prodded by nurses and CNAs.
I poke and prod myself now.
I prick my finger to check my blood sugar.
I count and organize medications—eleven pills in all.
Some twice a day. Some once.
Good grief.
I don’t use a walker.
I can climb stairs—slowly.
I sit in the backyard and enjoy the sunshine.
It is all good.
I’m surrounded by family, and I can’t express how wonderful that feels.
Much has been done to accommodate the new rhythm of things.
A bed has been placed in the office, so I’m not isolated downstairs—
close enough to slip in for a nap, close enough to feel part of the whole.
One of the biggest changes?
There’s actually room in the garage for a car.
Which means I can pull in, take the shortcut through the laundry room,
and slowly climb the stairs to the living area.
That feels like a blessing.
Still—
as I move through the house, things feel… unfamiliar.
I wonder why that stack of books is on that shelf.
There’s a bowl of random objects.
Why hasn’t someone put that camera away?
Wait—
that someone would be me.
The evidence of my eclectic sloth is overwhelming.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about a metaphor.
A strange combination of the Myth of Sisyphus
and the African Dung Beetle.
The Dung Beetle, careful and persistent, rolls an ever-growing ball of crap.
It’s important to him. He tends it. Maintains it.
Keeps it organized. Moves it forward.
In that regard, I am not like the Dung Beetle.
But like Sisyphus, there’s a hill.
And a burden.
And the need to push.
The ball goes before you—
wedging, nudging, gaining ground.
Until it doesn’t.
At some point, it all breaks away and rolls back down.
And there—laid bare—is the truth of it:
Most of the crap we’ve been pushing?
It isn’t all that important.
And for a moment—you are free.
Now I’m back from the hospital.
Back from the edge of life and death.
And what do I see?
Little piles of crap. All over.
And strangely—
I am comforted.
I don’t quite have the strength yet.
But I’m working hard to gather the little piles again.
To push them ahead of me.
Because life, absurd as ever, goes on.
