“Things change. Things end.” –A.I., June 2002

I'm receiving support from the most unexpected places, attention and opportunity from strangers hundreds of miles away. I was not ready to accept these things two weeks ago; I'm only a little more open to it now. I feel I have to know before I can say yes. I haven't trusted my intuition for quite a while. Maybe because an intimate friend of mine keeps telling me it’s wrong – at least, about him. But, as undeniably smart as he is about many things, I think he's wrong about this. My instincts have been dead-on quite often in my life. When I am secure and grounded, I hear loud and clear. It's when I am emotionally off-kilter that I can misread the message. I'm regaining my balance these days. It feels a little strange.

My dog and I walked through Not A Cornfield one morning last week. Through the rustling stalks that whispered, “things change…things end.” I took cellphone pictures of her. I love her. I cannot let her go. She is my savior. Saint Lulu.

Things change. Things end. If I lose her, I will wear her tag around my neck like a medal.

Devotional singing from St. Peter’s Catholic Church across the Metrorail tracks: “Rejoice,” they sang in unison. And the bells pealed. And I wept. I do rejoice. In gratitude for the gifts. Even in gratitude for the challenges.

December 9. The little pink streak. If I had entered the intersection a quarter second later, the dent would have been in the front of my car. A little 5-year-old girl would have been injured or dead. I would have had to live with that for the rest of my life.

But she’s alive and well, and I’m free to move about the world. I haven’t gotten over the miracle of the moment; I shouldn't. I keep seeing the gifts of protection (in the middle of not believing I deserved it) and perspective (split second timing changes everything).

Things change. Things end. This was my wake-up call: fuck depression. It's a complete waste of life. Even if I live as long as my maternal grandmother Nellie, 100 years is a blink of an eye.

My ex-husband told me today that he’d been watching the features included in “The Great Escape” Special Edition DVD he’d gotten for Christmas. Ancient WWII soldiers relating their POW experiences. It prompted him to think about what it’s like to be that close to the end of your life – to know for sure you’re in the last 3, 4, 5 years, or less. But we don’t need to get to 90 to have that awareness. I’ve had it since my father had his first heart attack at 50 – I was with him in Manhattan, walking crosstown on 54th and 6th. He died in front of me 6 years later, in Northern California, where he and Mom had moved in an attempt to live a healthier life.

I swore he’d live into his 80’s, but he only had 56 years on his card. His mother was in her mid-90’s. Mom’s hanging in, true to her genes, and in spite of all the physical challenges she’s faced the past 25 years. I don’t know how any of this informs my longevity. I live in Downtown Los Angeles. I could pull out of the gated garage one evening and get plugged by a .45 in the hands of a crack dealer.

These apparently morbid ruminations come at the end of one of my toughest years. I’m ready for it to end. I’m eager for things to change.

I’d better get some sleep...'cause they're about to.