Another cancer diagnosis. I have a small circle of friends and acquaintances, the opposite of Malcolm Gladwell’s “connectors.” This means, at least to my pattern seeking human brain, something not quite normal, because the latest diagnosis brings the number to four. I try and tell myself, it’s just chance. I’m 61, many of my friends and acquaintances are older by as much as 10 years, but, when I lived in Canada, my friends were in their late 50’s, early 60’s and some even in their 70’s, I had a bigger circle of friends and acquaintances, and there were far fewer of these cancer diagnoses. Something has shifted.
There is no more compelling case for intentional living than diagnosis with a life threatening illness. I am an observer in these journeys, not a participant, and yet, I feel more than ever the desire to think carefully about how I spend my time, more carefully than the times I’ve honestly wondered if I might die on trips in the mountains when avalanches roared down or rock fall tumbled down narrow gullies we were climbing. Immediate risk seems somehow so much more manageable than delayed risk.
Cycling to the Park Run this morning, a southwesterly wind was blowing and the temperature was just 5 degrees Celsius. As I rode along the water front, a fresh wind tugged at my bare legs. It might have felt cold but, with the spectre of mortality still fresh in my mind, the chilly wind felt exhilarating. Dark clouds scudded over the Tollgate Islands, and out to sea, white horses danced on wave tops. Smiling and nodding, hellos and hugs, familiar faces at the Park Run, and, as always, new faces too. Some walkers, some runners, a couple even wearing weight vests. An intentional start to a Saturday morning that will be like many other Saturdays in some ways, but totally unique in others.
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