My work remains meaningful; the public encounters continues to feed me and those with whom I'm in contact on both my tours and the commentaries in our little theater.
I was reminded of a conversation with cousin Paul or his wife, Shirley, or with cousin Armand, with whom I visited in New Orleans last December. It was after one of our visits to St. Louis cemetery in the successful search for the grave of our cousin-in-common, Amable Charbonnet (bd 1790), that talk came around to the actual burial procedures suggested by the historic setting.
(By way of explanation of how so many could be buried in the same family crypt); "... as the remains decay over the years, they're pushed to a drop slot at the back of the crypt to make room for the new burial." There was a word for that but I've since forgotten what it is.
For reasons unknown, this is the rising image of my thought processes of late:
Just behind memories-in-progress -- like yesterday's heady experience of awkwardly pretending to be dancing in a Green Screen Production for public access television -- with a choreographer and a
... and at a time when my life is winnowing away in the moments with not nearly enough left for me to do it all over again.
There will be others to fill my place in this March through Time, but despite this feeling of urgency and purpose -- mine will surely be running out, and soon.
I'm being diminished -- gradually -- by recent deaths of dear friends and acquaintances, with each a reminder of the approach of endings ... and wondering just how well am I managing my own exit?