The other night I watched this documentary: How To Live Forever. The title of this post refers to Buster Martin, a 101-year-old marathon runner, who smokes and drinks, eats red meat, and seems like a cranky old cuss. The more serene and poetic aging population is in Okinawa, and their philosophy of ikigai (reason for getting up in the morning) prevails.
The question of immortality is moot at this point–unless you know a sparkly vampire who thinks you’re the kitten’s jammies (though you are a terrible actress who never closes your mouth), or you have thought to put down your $80K for your cryogenically frozen noggin to be put on ice until they come up with a “cure,” we are all pretty much SOL. Death and taxes, baby. Everything else is just a bonus.
And while I would prefer my personified Angel of Death look more like “Meet Joe Black”
Versus Peter Griffith:
…again, I may not have much choice.
My point? Just a check-in with myself to make my time in this particular mortal coil as enjoyable as I can, from the spectrum of a job-well-done with a clean kitchen, to a needed smile when someone needs one, and when I’m “playing” in Azeroth, because really—really-–it is the time I get to hang out with my friends that means anything.
I keep a bit of ikigai by my metaphorical alarm clock, and know that when I lose it, it’s only misplaced–things shift and shimmy in and out of focus in our lives constantly, and the heat and smoke may be causing mirages, or true oasis of our (sorry–cornball moment) souls.
Before I get called home, to that great studio in the sky, where Brad Pitt, Keanu Reeves, John Cusack, and Ed Norton want to be my boyfriends, I hope I get to do three things:
1. See Paris
2. Write one novel (even if it never gets published)
3. Kill Ragnaros