I spent two hours all by myself on my 77th birthday. I sat in a rickety old chair behind the toolshed. Sherry wasn’t looking for me. My dogs were up the hill, hoping to find a slow rabbit (there’s no such thing as a slow rabbit in Washoe Valley). My cell phone was lost somewhere in the house.
I had looked forward to this time for days. I had one question to ponder: Why?
Why am I still alive?
Why was I created in the first place?
Why did I make the choices I made?
I’m great at making long lists of the whats in my life story. They don’t get at this emotional itch that nags at me.
It’s all about the why.
I can do some little great things in my days ahead.
If only I can answer the why.