Dying is a permission. Even might be dying but damned well hope not. Yes, I’ve been taking care of the necessaries. Just exchanged some texts with a dear friend who is an attorney and who is drafting a document that shall specify where I’d like my body to go. Her last text asked about who is to receive my cremains. It is all that casual.
That’s the heavy stuff. On a lighter note I am buying the better bottle of wine. Lying out in the sun, because Vitamin D is good for you and fuck wrinkles–not my problem. Time to–as someone once said–get the good china out.
Death is about letting go. And I am–on so many levels. I’ve started going through my closet, and anything I don’t love is being donated. How freeing is that? And how ironic that the expectation of many years ahead wasn’t all the permission I needed.
That’s life, I suppose. Learning is coming at an accelerated pace these days. Sometimes I feel this is a bit of a joke–the cosmic irony that I should figure so much out now, at the end. Other days I think well what if I do go on living, with my affairs in order and my literal load lightened.
How very liberating.