Yesterday morning, I had an encouraging encounter with my ophthalmologist, and in the afternoon was grateful I could still see well enough to read some of my stuff to a few kind and receptive book-clubbers just down the mountain.
I'm right hopeful that without any drastic interventions, my vision will remain functional as long as I need it. Judging by the history of the immediate generations of males in our clan, I'm likely already a year or so into my last decade as a breathing entity upon this earth. Even on a clear day, I don't need to see forever.
Taking stock, I don't have any regrets that keep me awake at night. I believe we are all under the Mercy, whether we know it or not. I can't think of any new places I need to know before I go. I would like to be deeply and fully known by the place where I am right now. That's what I'm working at.
Maybe I'll be able to get another book or two out while I'm still able to put words together. If not, none will suffer for the lack, but I'd rather share my last tale than bury it in the ground. Rabbi Yeshua told a story about that.
Writing isn't about being remembered for it. One of my neighbors borrowed a book I wrote from the local library a couple of weeks back. When she got it home, her husband said, "Does the author's name look familiar?"
"I didn't notice," she said, "It just looked like an interesting book."