What HAVEN'T you done?

It is assumed that once you are past about 18 years old, that you begin to accumulate 'life experiences' through education, vocational training, military or other worthy pursuits.

There have been times over the course of my life that I have listened to the "life list" of experiences of others and been frankly overwhelmed with the pages long events that have filled their days and nights.

I feel like a cardboard cut out.

From a distance, everything seems okay, but up close upon further inspection, there just isn't much there filling the gaps between the birthdays.

I know how other people fill their time. They read, they go to school, they volunteer - they live.

Has my existence become a narrowed sliver? An imitation of life? Worse yet, an imitation of what I think is life but it really isn't living at all?

What defines the 'life list'?

And, when we see the time of our life becoming less at the end zone and more statistics of our past half or three quarters, what comes next? A bludgeoning, bruising, hard won goal line stand to prove that we still have something in us after all or simply a list to be checked off until we die?

There are people who refer to this as 'a bucket list', as in "things to do before I kick the bucket".

Hmm.

I don't want to wait until the end and rush to cram living into the last little bit just to say "SEE!! I checked these things off my list!! I lived!! I mattered!"

I'd like to believe that while my list may not be the same over the course of my life as the next gal's list, that the things that fill the slots are worth the space. And if they are not, there isn't anything I can do to change what might have been into useful material now.

People who are driven to succeed in their lives just seem to accumulate more lines on their lists. But I'm thoroughly convinced that just doing something doesn't mean you are GOOD at doing that something.

Can I claim it honestly if it isn't something I do well? I can play lots of musical instruments. Equally poorly. But in my own defense, I play a few of them pretty well. Well enough to have earned A's in music in high school and college for my skill. Sure, there's always going to be someone who can go and best me in their musical ability. That used to bother me until I realized that may be the only thing they have going for them in their entire lives.

I think that all of our experiences, whether they 'measure up' to what someone else can claim or not, are valuable to making us more than the cooing, gurgling mass of raw material we all arrived as when we drew our first breath on this planet.

We didn't get there on our own and our life experiences, including any personal bucket list we have on a running tab, make us who we are - warts and all.

There's lots of things I haven't done. There's lots of things I want to do. I hope there is time left in the sands trickling out of my personal hour glass to accomplish some of them. My imagination of what I'd like to do far outstrips reality, so I'm willing to give a point or two in favor of dealing with the day to day minus the daydreaming haze.

I'll admit to a pang or two of jealousy when I hear the exploits and adventures of people I know who don't realize just how amazing their life journey is. They can't see the wonder and miracle of all they have accomplished because they have made the conscious choice to see life as 'no big deal'.

I can't live that way.

Even in marginal circumstance, life is too big a deal to ascribe to the 'later' box on the desk.

There isn't any way to know when or if tomorrow will ever come for any of us. We hope it will come, and we pray and plan, but there are no guarantees for us.

I don't believe that should become a justification for living life so far out on the edge that you are dangling over thin air. But sometimes, our cardio workout needs just that extra thrill to move us from complacency to action.

What haven't you done? What do you want to do, or be or become?

When was the last time it mattered to you?

It's all done with mirrors...

There is a program on television that shows this masked magician revealing all of the secrets of the 'big dogs' in the world of prestidigitation and illusion.

The purpose of his show is to illustrate that what we think we see isn't what we are seeing at all.

Kind of like seeing our reflection in the fun house mirrors, that wavy 12 foot tall image isn't really me.

Or that really extra wide image that fills the warped surface to create the illusion of being the size of the hot air balloon across the fair grounds waiting for passengers hoping to get a ride over the countryside.

Except that those mirrors have all been purchased by the retail industry for use in the ladies dressing rooms and changing areas of every major store.

I truly hate the fact that my rear end looks more like a shelf protruding from my backside than the non-existent back side of my youth.

When they tell us to "sit all the way back in your chair", I am loathe to tell them that I am as far back as my buttocks will allow me to go without changing my posture to resemble elbow macaroni.

All I want to know is what happened?

I used to wear Levi's button-down 501 jeans from the boy's section because I had no butt to worry over. There simply wasn't anything there. And the flat stomach that accompanied it was really great for slipping into those ultra skinny faded jeans that were just so comfortable and soft.

And I recall worrying about how I couldn't gain any weight when I was younger.

Oh, to enjoy a few of THOSE days again.

When did I become an old lady?

I have a reasonable expectation that, at any moment now, the magician will pull off his big reveal to show the audience that instead of this 'Sta-puf' marshmallow body, I am really his glamorous assistant who is toned, tanned and taut.

I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille... any day now...

But Mr. DeMille is dead and gone and turned to the windswept dust that obscures the skies over Hollywood and the magician has gone home to reveal his own paunch and a sadly balding head that is decorously covered with a cheap toupee.

So where does that leave me? No mirror is taking care of this bulge and the magic wand is lying limply exposed with flowers shooting out of one end, it's magical properties done and gone.

WHERE IS MY MIRROR OF PERFECTION????

I feel cheated.

But, and there is a big butt here, I hope to one day be able to create that magical reveal. That girl is out there somewhere in the misty and murky smoke that surrounds the tricks of the trade. I just have to summon the right words that contain the power to pull of the change.

I hate those words.

They are not thrilling like 'abracadabra' or 'ah lah peanut butter sandwiches'. Nor do they summon the excitement of 'presto!'. Instead they are much more hard on the ears.

Laps. As in those with feet on the road, astride a bike or in a pool.

Diet. As in making better choices every day, not some hackneyed popular panacea illustrated by an airbrushed model in a monthly magazine.

Stretching. As in the effort to increase both flexibility and enhance movement in the body, not the kind involving the cross table grab for the last buttery-good crescent roll at supper.

Sweat. As in dripping off my face in buckets while my evil Assassin dog checks over her shoulder to decide which death provoking maneuver will cause me the greatest suffering and drippage.

Nope, none of those sound as nice as magic words.

But then, after seeing the show about the magician's secrets, I have come to realize his magic isn't that spectacular either. Those lovely assistants pay a pretty heavy price to make Mr. Wonderful look good. And he soaks up the credit for illusory moments meant to tease, confuse and bewilder.

I may have issues to deal with, but this guy takes the cake! His mirrors are meant to confuse and do an excellent job of just that. Sadly, when they show just how the tricks are accomplished, I know I have stayed WAY too long at the fair.

There is nothing spectacular here. Just work in disguise.

So I am left to contemplate the sins of past life choices and circumstances as each day is simply an adventure in pain.

There won't be days that don't hurt. That just isn't possible. The secret here, just like the magician's mystical appearances, is to make it look easy when really it's not.

I'll be on my bike and mowing the yard today for the round of exercises that I need to complete.

No smoke and mirrors will be available for either the job of mowing or for what passersby on the road get to see. I am what I am as I am. You can always speed up if the vision before you isn't one you wanted to see.

Should someone happen to possess the ability to allow the reflection to pay the price while the outside package remains youthful and willowy...

oh, no!

I'd better pass on that. It didn't work out too well for Dorian Grey and I doubt the results would be much more satisfactory for my wish.

Time to sweat, people.

And you can't do that with a mirror.

Milk of Amnesia

Have you ever wondered about amnesia?

There is such a thing a selective amnesia where you remember things like how to breathe and how to eat and how to talk, etc., but you don't remember some people, places or situations.

I have often wondered how we might all fare in life if we had a dose of "milk of amnesia" and had select things removed from our memories.

There is a scripture that indicates rather plainly that when we confess, forsake and repent of our sins that God has the capacity to "remember them no more".

That's pretty cool, since I still remember the stupid things I have done, the hurtful acts I have committed and the willful disobedience that dogs my daily life.

How would I change if I didn't know who I had been and started with a fresh slate?

I saw a TV show one time where one of the main characters had an accident of some sort and her memory was completely wiped. Her mother-in-law, with whom she had previously enjoyed a rather frosty relationship, took the opportunity to reshape the gal's character into a version of a woman she would rather spend her time with instead of coming to know the daughter-in-law she already had.

It was actually pretty funny since the daughter-in-law had these 'twinges' that what she was being told wasn't accurate, but she plodded along anyway until her memory miraculously came back in an instant when she ran into an opening door.

Naturally, all of that "amnesia training" her mother-in-law had given her wasn't retained since it wasn't in the nature or character of the gal to act the way she had been told.

So, if it didn't work then, how could it work for people now?

I don't know about the rest of the population on the planet, but as self-willed as I am, I don't think that 'milk of amnesia' would totally change me.

I have been informed from reliable sources that I am somewhat different since experiencing a serious head injury. But I have also been told some elements of my personal character haven't changed. When asked to elaborate, the sources say I'm not THAT different and not to worry about it.

Hmm.

Kind of reminds me of another program I saw which literally haunted me for a few nights as the plot line crawled into bed with me and inflicted my dreams with thoughts of mind games and control.

The woman was kidnapped and 'reprogrammed' by these evil scientist dudes who only wanted to use her special gifts and talents for nefarious purposes.

I seriously doubt that would happen to me as I lack that kind of special skill and I talk in my sleep already, so any secret government information would not be safe in my hands anyway.

But the thought that someone could wipe away your memories and replace them with something else was still a powerfully scary thought.

Can you chose to forget something? Truly?

I have heard that people who experience traumatic events relive them in their thoughts. Surely they would benefit from a sip or two of "milk of amnesia"? Or would having that sip of the remedy to life's ills simply keep them from dealing with problems that would readily find a way to the surface through other channels?

What becomes of lessons learned if the slate of the mind is washed clean of any vestige of thought, feeling and emotion attached to actions and circumstances?

Are we a product of our life experiences for good or ill, or are we a constantly blank paper waiting to be written upon until the Master Writer of them all calls us to the desk for a final grade based upon the contents of our life's binder of work?

I know I have torn out sheets of my life's paper that contain things that aren't pleasant, but the imprint of those things I wrote are still impressed on the paper beneath and a skilled hand can draw the letters out and read the truth of my life - with or without my help.

Maybe the sum of who we are and whom we are on the way to becoming shouldn't be drunk away at some Pyrian Spring's draught of altering substance. After all, our life surroundings are overfull of people who are trying to forget by drinking, drugging. overeating and running in so many ways from everything that hurts - and sometimes those choices hurt other people through collateral damage.

Just how DOES God forget the unpleasant things we do? And why don't we forget them?

A wise Bishop once told me that WE keep the memory of things gone wrong as a reminder of how to stop them before they get so far gone again. Sometimes we keep the memories to be of help to some other struggling soul who so suffers as we have. And sometimes, we keep the memories because WE refuse to let them go in an endless cycle of self-punishment and mental flagellation over past wrongs that should have been forgiven of and to ourselves long ago.

It's tempting, I admit, to think of taking a big swig of 'milk of amnesia' when life is hurting me.

But I am quite sure that to do so would be more painful in the long run if it removed what few good qualities I possess along with the bad I wanted to forget. Lessons learned aren't always exciting, but they can always be useful - if I let them be.

Amnesia in real life scares me. The idea of looking into a mirror and not knowing who is there looking back at me is horrifying at best and devastating emotionally at worst.

How can people go forward who don't know much or anything about where they have been?

We are the sum of our parts and they are, good and bad, ugly and beautiful, all pieces of the whole. Cherry-picking through until we keep only the things we think of as being good removes the color commentary that makes us interesting and worth knowing.

One dimensional people are useless.

Personally, I wouldn't give a nickle for someone who was perfect only because they had never lived any. Scars, skinned knees and hearts that have been broken accidentally and on purpose are the things that make people both strong and vulnerable to and for each other.

I want to become perfected over time, but I don't want to get there suddenly because someone wiped the slate of my life clean of experience and heartache and moved me artificially to the head of the line...

Maybe that is the secret of it all. Learning the balance between the things that we learn from and the things we let go all on our own. We chose how to apply a balm of forgetfulness to those things that we just no longer need at all.

It's not that they didn't happen. It's just that they aren't relevant to whom we have so painstakingly become.

And maybe that is the real lesson after all. We learn and progress one line at a time.

Skipping ahead is no advantage if you haven't been prepared in some fashion for the jump.