Do we all strive for some form of immortality I wonder. Maybe not.
I've known some who scurry around inconspicuously, making time in quiet civil service type pensionable jobs, dreaming of days in future senior years of endless travel, mainly effortless cruises with none of that strange local food, thank you very much. Abroad with very little interest, if at all, in immersing themselves in local culture and peoples. There to merely group-shop and possibly summoning up enough energy to haggle with the local vendors, then scurrying back to the safety of the ship clutching shell laden gew-gaws to strew on those loved ones back home. Safe. Detached.
Then again, us more creative types or perhaps with less monetary choices, struggle on in our garrets: blogging, writing, painting, photographing, weaving, knitting, lace-making. I suppose it is an unconscious yearning for immortality. Who shall stumble upon my written ramblings and discourses, my now vast repertoire of knitted pieces, my photo-cards? Or not.
I have mementoes from my friends on my walls. Needlepoint, photos, paintings. Pottery. A wooden bowl. Not many. But it is in these I catch their spirits as I walk by. A comfort. Even when they are dead, as many are. They are immortal in the work they produced out of their very spirits.
"Here," they proclaim,"is a piece of me. Forever. Know I live on through you by these works."
Detail of lighthouse, ferry and my house from afghan.
Detail of reading, music and love of coffee.
