Grandma Tressa

Yesterday was cold and rainy, and Grandma Tressa passed away. It's no tragedy for an old woman to die; two years ago at my dad's funeral she kept saying that it should have been her first. But after 94 years she was tired and her body shut down. She saw a lot in those years.

Today I looked at my home and the things in it. Although there is a good deal of antique furniture, although several things in my home cross the line into fine possessions, it struck me that all these things are somewhat comfortable but ultimately don't matter. Seeing my guitar propped up by the couch it seemed more important that I learned how to play music, that I learned to take pictures and cut gemstones, that I became an Eagle Scout and put myself through college and graduate school. It is more important that I spend time with my daughter and do the volunteer work that I've done for several years. There's no way of knowing how far my ideas and influence spread through my counseling work and writings, but it's more important that I do these things than buy nicer furniture.

It's important that I understand one day I will die, and being satisfied with my life at that point depends on what I do today and today and today. Since I don't know when I will die it is important that I be satisfied with what I've done today and every day hence.

Yesterday, buying pipe tobacco, the gal at the register asked if I wanted a bag. I told her I had enough at home already. She asked if I was married, with a sly grin. I replied that I will never refer to a woman like that, and that life is too short to build myself up by tearing others down. She said I was a good man. Today and today and today.

Be at peace, Grandma Tressa. I'll be along soon enough.