Trying to distract myself from the preparation for tomorrow’s colonoscopy, which if you’ve been there you know is an unpleasant experience.
I’ve watched about three hours of Ally McBeal on Netflix, constantly pausing because of the nature of the preparation. Bored, uncomfortable, and irritated, I tried to think of something I could do in short spurts (colonoscopy prep joke–sorry to those who are delicate and find my joke inappropriate–because it is quite appropriate.)
I pulled out the Complete Poems of e.e. cummings and opened it to a page with the following poem, which I’m sharing with you because I love it and because it speaks to what I’ve been trying to figure out this year about what it means to be 50, an age that seemed old when I was young and seems young now that I am there. Here it is:
may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old
may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young
and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile.
—- e. e. cummings
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