Impermanence is a hard pill to swallow. That’s why I’m on the
verge of gagging right now.
I’ve swallowed at least a dozen of those nasty things in the
last week. I bet you have, too.
For me, it started with the stock tank that doesn’t stay full
more than four days in a row, and always comes up empty during a
blizzard when the hose is frozen to the ground. If someone ever
genetically engineers a horse that can go without drinking water, I
might consider buying another one.
In the meantime, I have to buy a new pair of dress pants,
because some things never change and others shrink.
My husband is really good at filling the washer with soap and
water and dumping a load of clothes in it. On a standardized test,
his sorting skills would consistently score in the 10th percentile
or lower.
I have asked nicely and yelled angrily for him to never wash my
clothes again. He consistently does it, anyway. The last time he
took a pair of pants waiting to be sent to the dry cleaners and
threw them in with a load of jeans. It’s an interesting look – the
hem hanging 2 inches below the pant leg – but I’m not going to be
the first one to make that fashion statement. Instead, I threw the
pants in the trash. Ask my husband; that pill lodged in my gizzard
for several days.
Impermanence is clearly unprejudiced and worldly. It works at a
snail’s pace and at the speed of light. At the dinner table a few
nights ago, one of our children was involved in a pleasant
conversation, enjoying his Cajun entrée. When table talk changed to
money and the child’s obligation to repay some debts,
presto-changeo, impermanence reared its ugly head. No more Mr. Nice
Guy for him or me.
Of course, impermanence is not always bad. Take, for instance,
the splitting headache I had after that meal. It was relieved
within minutes by taking a couple aspirin; not all pills are hard
to swallow.
Impermanence is like man’s best friend, the dog. You can depend
on it. All I have to do is look at myself in the mirror or glance
at my checkbook to know life is full of positives and
negatives.
This was pretty evident when we decorated our Christmas tree
this year. On the positive side there was only one of five children
present to carry on the tradition. That made the day calm and
peaceful. On the negative side, there was only one of five children
present to carry on the tradition of having all the family present
to share in the decorating.
Half way through the blessed event, my husband and I made an
executive decision. It’s time for some new traditions. As the
children grow up, coming home to decorate is not considered a
reasonable excuse from college exams or jobs. At first, I was
angry, and then I was sad. I really wanted things like they used to
be, but I really didn’t.
The paradox was exacerbated by a funeral I attended the
following day. There is no pill harder to swallow than the death of
a loved one. Death is cruel, unless it relieves one of unbearable
pain. Death leaves us all alone, unless you count all the people
who tend to rally around the survivors to carry them through their
grief. Death is pointless unless it causes you to live with a new
sense of urgency. And death is so personal, unless you realize
life’s impermanence leaves its mark on every door, in every land,
from age to age.
Acknowledging impermanence doesn’t make the pill taste any
better it simply makes us realize we will take our medicine. It can
be with a warm cup of kicking and screaming or a fresh glass of
serenity and acceptance. The choice is always ours.
Karen Kendig can be reached at KENDIGKAREN5@aol.com