I spent time with my 79 year old Dad today talking about the various misfortunes in his lifetime. This was the third or fourth conversation of its kind this year. These conversations are brand new to me. Never before has he felt this comfortable with me to discuss his life with such candor. Nick and I are loving it.
But tonight I am left with a haunting recurring thought.
What must it feel like to be in the winter of your life?
At 31, if I’m to have a long life like my Dad, I am merely in the spring, still blooming. If I’m to have a long life, I have plenty of time to fulfill my dreams and make my contributions to this world.
But what if I’m in the winter or fall of my life and I don’t know it? What would it feel like to find myself at the end and still not be satisfied? Whether with a life cut too short, or one dragged out, drenched with mediocrity, and drowned in remorse for dreams unrealized.
I develop a headache whenever I try to prioritize the ways I’d like to invest my time to make the world a better place. I suffer from analysis paralysis.
Unlike me, Nick doesn’t have the overwhelming primal longing to leave a legacy and create something that will make a positive impact on our world. I can’t shake it, and not knowing how much time I have to figure it out is a scary, scary thought.
Your thoughts? How do you handle these morbid emotions?