The blood moon crouched on the horizon as I came home from work on Tuesday. I longed for even my scratched lens to capture the glowing orb. By the time I got to the Park, it had risen, bright, full, and radiant.
I cannot sleep these days. A few hours of rest ends with tense moments of wakefulness before I finally drag myself from bed. I huddle under the blankets as long as possible, wishing for the silent shroud of sleep. Eventually I cannot avoid the futility of my efforts. But I don’t use the extra time for anything productive. My body still yearns for rest, steered wrong by a scrambling brain.
The next year could make or break my mortal salvation. Mindful of my promise to live to be 103, I consider that I have a third of my life remaining. I could do so much with three decades: Finish my book; atone for my misspent youth; send countless ripples of joy across the surface of our moonlit planet. I do not suggest that I have any special power other than hard-won awareness. My muscles still shudder; my heart still wobbles; my stubborn nature persists. But I have stepped out of the shadows into the dazzling light on the bright side of the moon. That has to count for something.
It’s the fourteenth day of the seventy-first month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.