Reflections on my mortality

Being of that age – well into the second half of my life – I sometime reflect on what it all means, and of course on my mortality. We should all take time to reflect on our mortality, even the young. I know that the young believe themselves to be bullet proof, and their mortality is not even a question, for I too was young once and I too believed that I was bullet proof. I am not, for I have the scars to show for it – both physical and emotional.

Curiously I do not feel my age. I just know that there are certain things I cannot do, I am definitely slower in my movements than before and my sinews are less forgiving after exercise than they used to be. Curiously I also feel less inclined to do the things I now cannot now do – maybe this is a form of ‘defence mechanism’ and a sort of self justification.

There is a certain peace of mind that comes with age. There is an acceptance of things as they are, without the urgency of youth and I have now learned to appreciate the truth of the words, “This too shall pass.”

This is not to say that I will just accept what comes along – certainly not! Where life matters appear to be inconsistent; where there is injustice; where there is cruelty; where there is unethical conduct I will do my best – using the power of one – to bring it to the public’s attention and if I am able, to redress the situation.

Now, as to my mortality, I always liked John Masefield’s poem “A Creed”. It satisfies my ideal of life’s continuum and a certain dawning of hope that my life may not have been in vain. I offer you just the first three verses, so that you may see what I mean:

A Creed

“I held that when a person dies
His soul returns again to earth;
Arrayed in some new flesh-disguise
Another mother gives him birth.
With sturdier limbs and brighter brain
The old soul takes the roads again.

Such was my own belief and trust;
This hand, this hand that holds this pen,
Has many a hundred times been dust
And turned, as dust, to dust again;
These eyes of mine have blinked and shone
In Thebes, in Troy, in Babylon.

All that I rightly think or do,
Or make, or spoil, or bless, or blast,
Is curse or blessing justly due
For sloth or effort in the past.
My life’s a statement of the sum
Of vice indulged, or overcome.”

... and so it goes on – a good poem.