Growing older comes with nine kinds of losses.

I often find myself sad. Unaccountably sad. Inexplicably sad. The rate of loss is such that I can’t quite keep up with the mourning. And then I remember.

None of this was meant to last forever. I remember infinity and that there are angels amongst us. People whose light and love make all the losses bearable. I just suddenly find myself laughing. Having some seriously joyful fun at my own expense because I drifted into taking myself much too seriously for a stretch.

I do love us all a lot. People. What a knuckleheaded brilliant mean generous glorious bunch of idiots we are. Making heaven and hell on earth for ourselves and one another every damn day. Falling for every shiny thing. Scaring ourselves half to death with wild imaginings. Fearing monsters.

Yep. We got ‘em. Low down mean spirited soured on life feral hogs.

But then there’s Jon Batiste. Just one big bright light beaming and spreading joy. If you look at him long enough you can see his wings. There’s the perfect pastry and a cup of black coffee and helping a sister find the just right sofa. And working with a team to do one thing that will make us more likely to make it through the next storm. And a hunk of dirt on a corner that brings joy by being a blank canvas of crazy possibility.

Then I remember. The biggest loss for me is seeing the shoots of some things that will bear fruit so far in the future I won’t be here to see it. I recognize the good that will come long after I’m gone and know that I have just one job: to tend those shoots. Just weed and water all the good I see. Run ahead of the hogs and keep the good stuff alive.

Wrote this for me and maybe for you too.

                          Love,

                         Angela