There’s no longer anything I want to be when I grow up. I think I can consider myself pretty much grown up by now. I’m not rushing to accomplish anything. I know I’m not going to have an illustrious career or make a ton of money or win a Nobel Prize in economics, physics, or peace. I’ve written a book and I have the germ of an idea for another book. The first book never got published and the second may never get written. I might never really overcome my swimming phobia so completing a triathlon has fallen off the “bucket list.” Actually the bucket list doesn’t even exist. My obituary is going to be really boring.
There is such freedom from accepting the fact that I no longer really want anything with any level of intensity, little lust in my heart. I am just being, settling into being with much more serenity than I expected.
I’ve learned that nothing stays the same. If it’s too hot outside, just wait a few months and it will become too cold. If I’m angry and hurt by someone, with time either that person will be out of my life or the wound will begin to heal. I’ve seen a lot of heartbreak. I’ve been betrayed, lost jobs, worried myself sick about financial woes, and lived through the deaths of people I loved. Yet I’m still here—I survived what I didn’t think I could survive.
Time is the only thing left in life. How much time only God knows. I’m planning to savor that time being content just being. Am I beginning to sound like a Buddhist?