Why

For close to seventy years I have given this living thing a jolly good go, and will continue to do so. As that magical “Four score and ten” draws ever closer and looms ever larger, I am doing my very best to make sense of it all, and hope to give a good accounting of the time that I am allotted between my first uninhibited bellow upon entering this world, and my last sigh of expelled breath as I leave it.

When taking stock I have concluded the following; I can fry an egg and drive a car, but I cannot play a musical instrument or scale a cliff-face, I can hold a conversation and change a light bulb, but I cannot strip and re-assemble a car’s engine or sit at a sewing-machine and produce a dress or take up a hem, I can laugh and I can cry, but I cannot impart true wisdom or effect any meaningful change. My eyesight is good and my hearing is sound, my speech is clearly audible and easily understood, and my inner workings continue to function without any alarming missteps or threats of failure, and they do so without any conscious effort on my part; all in all an acceptable state of affairs.

When considered, it thus appears that I have no call for serious regret, vengeful anger or a beseeching wail of “Why me?” Nor do I warrant a ticker-tape parade in honour of my achievements.

I am, if one were pressed to sum it all up in one word, satisfied. It could be better if truth be told, but, It could be worse, a lot worse, acknowledging, as I look about me and witness all the hardships and the difficulties that are so chillingly possible, that there, but for the fickle vagaries of chance and happenstance, go I.

I often ponder over the mystery and the magic of this journey that I am on, wondering, why me, why have I, this complex being of vast potential and endless capability, been given a ticket to hop on board. Is it really true that my being here makes a difference, as the single flap of a lone butterfly’s wing is acknowledged to make a difference?

My overriding thought about this whole kit and caboodle, this magical mystery tour of beauty, pain and laughter, of enlightenment and puzzled contemplation, of great reward and annoying disappointment, of debilitating anxiety and soothing contentment, is why?

This deeply felt need to know why is accompanied by the pedantically probing and irritatingly logical question; do I really need to know why, will it change anything or make a difference?

I look at what was, what is, and what will be, as the beguiling patchwork that makes up this mysterious and complex, yet beautiful and magical gift that is my life. I can tweak it here and there, and in so doing, to some extent, believe myself to be master of my own destiny, to be charting my own course. I derive a wonderful sense of purpose and comfort from this notion of being in charge, but must hasten to confess that I have, always at the ready, a sincere apology for being so presumptuous.

I will however continue to wonder, at a very deep and fundamental level, why.

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