Writing from the ferry boat. Have to squeeze this post in between events, hospital then airport. It is beautiful again this morning. The sun is breaking through the usual morning marine clouds. The water is very calm as we cruise. The barometric pressure is high with stable weather for us. Looks like corn planting time to me.
The planting project is in high gear with the prep all done and with Jim coming today. Hopefully we will start putting the seeds in tomorrow morning. So, exciting!
There always is that thought rattling around in my brain that this could be the last corn crop for me. Can’t be helped really with the state of things, the uncertainty of things. Of course this is true for all of us young or old that every darn thing is the last but we never ever dwell on that naturally.
Coming into the dock, another successful crossing. It is really a miracle that we continually take for granted. No problem, we are good at that. But today I am thinking that my corn could be my last, but who’s dwelling.
Time to disembark, see you at the hospital. Ah, the traffic was bad but here I am. All parked and seated and waiting. Hello to this person and that person, been here way too long, know everyone.
Today the main thing here is to work out if I am continuing the clinical trial that was interrupted last time due to a substandard number. Yea, so I trust the doc to navigate through the protocols on this and get me the best deal. The best deal is what I hope for, right?
So, back to the topic of the feeling that this is the last time I do something. Maybe this is my last hospital visit. Maybe this and maybe that. I guess the takeaway is to not take things for granted, right?
I am going to sign off for now. The doc is going to call me in momentarily. Th best to you this day. One thing at a time loves, Felipé.
As for the last day, last time syndrome, I do that all the time. When I buy the big box of 3,000 sq ft of saran wrap at Costco, I wonder, will I last until the end of this roll? That’s a lot of plastic wrap. My motto is, Don’t buy green bananas. Hang in there, Phil. I predict you will be around for planting next year! Sending love.
Henriette Anne
Oh Henriette you are hilarious! “Don’t buy green bananas” is a good motto! If we can’t laugh at some of this serious stuff then I really don’t want to be here. Felipé.x
Dear Phil,
What a poignant post… I should be turning on my work computer but I decided to post a comment here. In this culture when we think that “time is clicking” only when we get a diagnosis of a life-threatening illness (not even the others!!!) or when as women we arrive to the 40ies, it is easy to forget that we are mortal human beings, all of us, at A N Y T I M E. And in this culture too, when we talk about “lost battles” or “life has been taken by…” we forget that life just happens, and we live the life we have been given, and while we do have choices, we don’t choose the life we have.
And I am going to go personal here, mostly because by now, the readers here are my neighbors and my fellow pilgrims and going personal (or sharing our hearts) is what we do with those who share our lives with us.
My mother died at 39 years old of liver cancer. I was 5 years old when that happened. And I have not a single memory of her, or my life with her, how she looked like, nothing… And for many many years, I told that “My mother died when I was 5” as if I would be saying “I bought plants for my apartment”… it was part of my story, but I was not owing it. In 2013 I went to London for the first time and visited Kensington Palace, well not the palace, but the gardens, and there is a small tower with a clock and there is this sentence written below the clock that reads: “Time flies”. I was recently divorced and for the first time thought that since a very young age I knew that time is short, that lives can be taken at a young age, even if you have young children to look after, even if you have a lot to do, a career to pursue, a mortgage to pay, a trip to do, still to meet the love of your life, etc. but I never thought that way before and that haunted me for a while. The next year I went to the Camino. I spoke with my boss and while my job was the best thing that was going on in my life back then, I said that if I wouldn’t be granted a leave, I would be quitting. I was granted an 8 weeks leave and I left.
Thinking of my mother’s story, the Camino and John O’Donohue’s book, my own life experiences, all that started to re-shape my way of seeing “life”, not even my own life but everybody’s, and it was more clear to me that we are here on a journey, that is more likely to be an on-foot one, that a speedy highway one… and while preparation is key, it doesn’t grant an insurance, even many who have trained before going to the Camino got blisters and injuries that made them stop their pilgrimage, change their plans, skip sections, etc. Some others were lucky to get to Santiago, but the ones who got there, realized that the journey continues beyond Santiago, and by then we know that our journey may be cut short because of blisters and injuries; or that our journey may include skipped sections. But, as pilgrims too, we rejoice in the fact that we left the comfort of our lives in our sofa, and set on a pilgrimage, that has nothing spectacular, it is not easy, it includes the risk of being cut short, or blisters and injuries, but I am sure at some point we will be able to tell the story of our lives and the best will probably be if we can say: “I had such a great journey.”
But the reality is that nobody knows when it will be that moment, blisters and injuries only are reminders that we have to do the best with the time we have walking. The ones who don’t have blisters and injuries, may just walk mindless and are taking the risk of their lives being taken by a car rolling over them…
Just a couple days before Jean Vanier’s death, I was listening to the conversation Krista Tippet had with him. I had listened to it before more than once, but each time, it is revealing. This last time it touched me thinking of my aunt and her disease too.. but anyway, in that conversation, he said the below:
“Death is a passage, which will be an extraordinary discovery, something that’ll be so amazing that we can’t even imagine it. It’s like my little niece who died of AIDS, and she wasn’t a believer. She said, “What it’s going to be like?” And I said, “Well, you’re going to fall asleep. And when you wake up, you’ll be in such joy, such peace. Something that you’ve never, never lived before.” And she said, “But I’m not a believer.” I said, “But you remember when you were in that apartment in Paris, and there were some Turkish immigrants that you make cakes for them. I’ve always seen you as somebody kind. And so your kindness, you’ll find — it’ll be OK. And then the rest we will discover. It’s going to be exciting. It’s going to be wonderful.”
I am not strong in my faith, but I hang into the fact that I love my neighbors and fellow pilgrims!
Genuine Love,
Cris
Cris, I am going to post your entire Comment on the blog today. It is so complete, so thoughtful. Thanks for taking the time for us which you probably don’t have. I guess I shook all this stuff loose, blame it on me. We all are looking forward to seeing you. Corny loves, Felipé.x
Sending positive thoughts & prayers! We can only handle one day at a time; Jesus reminds us of that a lot in His teachings! Do not be afraid, I am with you (the words of a favorite hymn) and “Grace Flows Down” is another great song! I hope you feel all the grace & love showering down on you through these trials! Thank you for reminding us to be open & LIVE in the present moment! ❤️🙏
I knew my dad was going to pass within the next year after he did not want to plant a garden.
He was a farmer who loved planting, tilling, harvesting, working the soil. That you are still out there planting crops and hope in souls is good stuff.
Enjoy this sun filled week! Corn will be knee high by the 4th of June at this rate!
Jessika