since my last blog post.
Since last time, satan has reared his ugly head and life has given me a bonified black eye, busted lip, bruised rib, and all around beating.
My mom, who I depend on way more than a nearly 50-year old (ok, 47 in two weeks, but still) woman should, has been ill.
In the hospital, taken by an ambulance, ill.
My dad, who leans heavily on my mom, has been beside himself.
My dearest friend has been given (by mere mortals) six months to live.
It has been a trying month.
First off, my mom is home, well and feeling quite herself.
My dad, an Air Force Veteran (whom we should all be applauding today for his service to the USAF) is better because my mom is feeling better.
It brings a surprising revelation to light.
While this would distress and hurt me beyond comprehension, I have this hope they would die, in their sleep, at the same time.
As awful as this may sound to some, I’d rather mourn them both at the same time than try to handle one without the other.
I can’t frankly speak for my sister, but wonder if she wouldn’t agree.
If that isn’t possible, I hope my dad, my hero and advocate goes first, because I cannot fathom him without my mom.
Mom would miss dad terribly, but she’s strong, and would survive.
Maybe I’m more crazy than I imagined, but I can handle Mom’s tears more easily than Dad’s.
I honestly don’t know how I would deal with him if he had to live without her.
As for my dearest friend, who is battling cancer, I advised her, as I do everyone, to live every day as if it’s the very last one.
Nobody, but nobody has the promise to live further than the moment they are in.
I know where I’m going when I’m gone from this world, so dying doesn’t scare me.
Living, however, without the people who love and understand me, gives me pause.
If that sounds selfish, it’s because it is.
I thought I’d grow old and watch, with my husband I dearly loved, grandchildren playing in the yard.
Then, I came home one day, and out of the clear, blue sky, found him as dead as Moses.
No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.
There’s no promise of life, to any of us, past the single moment we find ourselves living in.
If one doesn’t intend to live life as it happens, they forfeit their right to complain when it’s over, or nearly over.
You can quote me on that.
Right now, in this moment, is all I am certain of.
It is all any of us can be certain of.
This moment.
This breath.
This heartbeat.
Each day, if it doesn’t mean something, is wasted.
I say this to family, friends, former friends that I miss with an intensity that embarassess me, and though I can’t think of any specifically, my enemies.
I don’t think I have any absolute enemies. If I do, they’ve been mighty quiet about it, and I forgive them anyway, knocking out the one leg they, were they real, had to stand on.
That’s good, though, in my way of thinking. Who, when they have life to contend with, need enemies to muddy up the mess further.
And yet, as I often do, digress.
Now is the only thing that matters.
Grab on or be left behind.
Those are, in actuality, the only two choices.
As Shakespeare said (though he may have meant it differently as words in his day were perplexing, they pretty much say the same thing). To be or not to be … that is the question.
I choose to be, even when it hurts, is painful, annoying, hurtful, betraying or joyous.
I choose to give it everything I have, be whatever I can be and love, even those who don’t love me, unconditionally.
Be it joyous, angry, confused, happy, sad, contemplative or any number of emotionally relevant states, with bright lights, awesome auroras, sleepless nights and flying debris; I’m there, every day, all the way.
I know who I am and if I die before morning, I know where I’ll find myself.
I love you all, even when you’re unloveable, just as you do me.
We, though we are all in the image of God, are, intrinsically human.
A Photographer's Heart 
