the life of a thousand new years.

death has been on my mind a lot lately. A LOT. not death as in the abstract philosophical death--death as in MY death. i do not know why this is.

yesterday as i was googling myself (which is a totally normal thing to do by the way), i came across this:

Family-Placed Death Notice

CARTER, Carolyn CAROLYN McKENZIE CARTER Carolyn McKenzie Carter, age 91, of Sea Island, Georgia, died Wednesday, April 21, 2010. Mrs. Carter was a native of Moultrie, Georgia, and was a graduate of the Ward-Belmont School in Nashville, Tennessee and from the Grady School of Journalism at the University of Georgia. She served as staff writer and was the first female photojournalist for the Atlanta Constitution. She married her husband, Don, in 1942 and later went to work at the Journal-Constitution Sunday Magazine where she spent several years taking photographs and writing stories about the South. Mrs. Carter also worked for the Coca-Cola Company as a writer and editor for a specialized company publication prior to moving to New York in 1959. While there she was a freelance writer and photographer who promoted tourism for the Georgia Department of Industry, Trade and Travel. She and her husband later moved to Sea Island in 1982 where they retired and continued to be active in community, professional and travel activities. Mrs. Carter was an avid golfer who also enjoyed reading and the Theater.

Published in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution on April 22, 2010

what a lovely woman. i mean, Sea Island, Georgia...that sounds like somewhere i'd like to be. a photojournalist, a husband named don, a life spent writing about her homeland, reading, theatre, golf! i wonder what her husband's favorite thing was about her. i wonder if they had the kind of marriage worth living. i wonder what books were her favorite, how far she traveled, what music she liked, if she was a good cook, if she was funny or sappy or gossipy or timid. i wonder if she was content with this life she lived.

and then i got to thinking, what if i could write my own obituary. i mean, if i were writing the script of my life, what things would i dream for myself? if i died in a tragic car wreck on the 15 tomorrow from accidently swerving into the median because i had the hiccups, and the semi behind me couldn't stop in time, what would my parents write about me? and what would become of all of my journals?

in yoga, at the end of every class, we lay on our backs, palms upwards and open, our eyes closed. shavasana. you have to understand a little something about yoga to appreciate this. the previous hour has been spent twisting your body like a curly straw, holding it in postures that make every muscle in your body tremble. you're trying to breathe into lungs that are wrung tight. you're trying to conquer the frustration of not being able to stand on one leg while holding the other leg backwards above your head with one hand and using the other hand to write sanskrit on the back of your opposite shoulder blade. laying down at the end of the practice is honey-sweet.

last week, the instructor called shavasana the corpse pose. it is a laying down of the old self so a new self can be born.

like a phoenix.

and so it is, a new year, a new chance. i think it is honey-sweet too. every week should be a new year. every day. a life of a thousand new years.

stick your stake in the ground to mark the territory of a newly impassioned soul,

roll away your stone,

rise!