For about 20 years, starting in my mid-50s, I traveled extensively, visiting numerous European, Asian and Aouth American countries. But then, suddenly, in 2019, I stopped. Just didn’t want to get on a plane anymore. That is weird for a double Sagittarian whose unrealized dream, when young, was to travel the world reporting on my experiences. (Instead I got married, had two kids, and felt tied down.)
So why now, do I no longer desire to travel to the far corners of the world?
Well, if my experience on the week-long car trip with Joan (see last two posts) is any indication, it’s because either I’m tending to immerse myself far more into whatever environment I’m inside of, or: — and this is weird, this is the opposite . . . — I can no longer sensorily pick up and translate audible “data” from outside myself the way I used to.
I suspect both are true, actually. At 82, my own individual consciousness feels far more permeable than it used to, thus fuller immersion; and, my ears no longer work as precisely as before. BTW: I am not talking about “hearing loss.”
Case in point: while listening to various speakers at the Rebels of Disclosure conference, I found myself often unable to instantly translate the sounds that were coming into my ears into meaningful words, sentences. Instead, garbled. Or as if in a foreign language.
At first I assumed that my problem was the “fault” of the microphone; that the organizers had not vetted the audio well enough, had not somehow blanketed the place so that there wouldn’t be weird echoes, reverberations. But: I noticed that other people in the audience did not have the same problem that I was having. They would all laugh at the same time, for example, at something I hadn’t even been able to pick up on.
I repeat: It’s not that my hearing is going; it’s that the sounds themselves that I pick up from a microphone tend to be garbled. Very weird.
I’ve never heard of others having this particular hearing problem before; maybe because I find it difficult to articulate, so they would too?
On another topic, or is it? My speaking of fading abilities is akin to noticing I’m marching towards death . . .
I notice that Scott Adams is now saying that he expects to be dead by sometime this summer; that he has the same kind of cancer that they now claim Biden has, prostate cancer that has metastasized to the bones.
I admire Scott Adams as one of the very few public figures who, after being decidedly pro-vax, then actually admitted that he was wrong and the anti-vaxxers correct.
Frankly, ever since the covid catastrophe the world has seemed out of sorts. What went down during those four years has simply not been processed, either individually, or relationally, or culturally. And yet, how much of this “out of sortness” is due to deterioration in my own perceptual capacities, and how much is due to “reality?” I’m reminded of this meme. Not sure why . . .
Please don’t read too much into this apparently morbid post. Instead, note it as part and parcel of the “humbling” that I underwent at the conference. Because I do seem to be aging at a much slower rate than most people my age (thanks to staying in motion, intermittent fasting, and continuing to challenge myself), I also tend to think of myself as relatively invincible. Clearly, I am not!
The day after our return I walked by a pond that has ducks. Wanted to see how the ducklings were doing. Eleven of them from one mother, and two from another mother who had abandoned them!
How do I know these duckling specifics? I happened to come upon a man in a wheelchair. I’ve seen him before from afar. He apparently goes to the pond often to watch.
Since my own son is now in a wheelchair (paralyzed, nerve-damaged: see https://www.caringbridge.org/visit/colincudmorehealing) I have found myself much bolder. Rather than a polite hello, I walked right up and asked: “Why are you in a wheelchair?”
I have a sense that very few people bother to ask this question of wheelchair-bound people. Because it was as if he suddenly had permission: to tell me that for the last nine years the entire right side of his body has been not only paralyzed, but nerve damaged. That he has bone growths in his neck and at the bottom of his spine. That it takes him two full hours each morning, on waking, to gradually work his neck so that it will be flexible enough to turn, with the entire experience painful . . . on and on. His story endlessly fascinating and horrible. And yet, during this entire soliloquy, his face was beaming, refulgent.
And, on another note, right in the middle of it, sudden ruckus in the pond below: a giant crane had just picked up one of the ducklings, flew to the other side of the pond, and ate it. The mother duck furious, squawking like mad.
WOW!
At some point, I asked the man, given the horror show he endures 24×7, “Why do you remain alive?”
“Because I love life. And I love people.”
And he meant it. It was truly obvious that he meant it.
I asked him if I could give him a hug. He eagerly accepted, and thanked me, over and over.
How often does he even touch another person?
Then I told him he might think about doing some tic toc videos. To let people know what it’s like to be him.
“Really? I didn’t think my story is that interesting.”
“Oh, it is. And inspiring.”
Again, him: “thank you thank you.”
So that was yesterday. What will today bring?
