Dancing chicken act

I was ranting in an e-mail to a friend and, amongst other things, I spewed this out, “Oh god, Jim, ever since leaving TX my life has been such a mess.  All I wanna do is crawl in a hole, far deep and away until I heal from everything.”


He responded to those two sentences in the “so what’s going on with you” section of his e-mail.  He asked me two questions, two great questions to ask when you’re stranded in the airport of life:


“What are you looking for that you don’t already have?”

“What are you not giving to yourself?”


These questions stopped me cold.  I sat, unusually stunned, for a few seconds. 


Then, when I’d recovered, I did the knee-jerk thing of dragging out my beleaguered journal and spewing out more of the same rants, the same old complaints.


The same old complaints morphed into the topic of death, because complaints for me always raise the questions of what I’m going to do about them, and will I have time to do anything about them before I die, because I haven’t done all that much about them yet, and I figure I’m halfway to death.


In this chicken-dancing, monkey-chattering process, I realized two things:


Although I thought I’d made friends with the concept of death, I don’t really get the concept at all.  I realized I don’t picture myself dying.


And I realized I’d completely evaded the two questions my friend posed.


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