The Real Me?

"Oh, you're young!" 

She said when I revealed my age, only 61. Because when you see a bent-over spine and you hear a croaky voice, you think Old. 

Walking in the park now I know I'm in a category. My sexuality is disappeared, vigor shoved into memory, and what remains is, well, remains. 

On the other hand, my feet! my shoes. my words. my imagination. my perspective on things still developing, still expanding, still demanding to be shared. 

I write to a person who lives in a prison. He draws for me. He insists that I am not dying, won't hear of it, insists I am vigorous, radical, and full of laughter. Is that the real me? That's the one I know, the voice I still hear in my head as I write or think. Then I open my mouth to speak and hear a labored whisper with a bit of sound trying to make its way out. Maybe that is the real me. 

The other day I received an informational packet about advanced directives and home hospice from my health insurance company (how do they know?). In the envelope were two other packets addressed to two other people in Brooklyn. Are they getting my materials too? Are we dying together? Who is who? 

One of the earliest Zen koans given to students is:

What is your original face before your parents were born? 

Can you see it? Can you feel it? Hear it?  

Who is it?

May 7, 2021