Wow. That was one of those moments when God just settles the concept in your heart and you sit down and transcribe the words. It was about 15 minutes — for the record, right after I finished watching June, the remarkable documentary about the life and death of June Carter Cash — between the moment I thought, “I’m not done,” and the moment I finished preparing the poem to post Tuesday morning.
During those 15 minutes I set down the words and tweaked them just a little, took a selfie without my glasses and drained the color to make the image as stark as I could, threw the works into the mix for my daily 3 a.m. churn, and just for good measure made the new selfie the main art at the top of the web page. That’s how lightning-fast and thoroughly it felt like my life changed.
I wrote in my journal: “Maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and think, ‘That wasn’t so special,’ but tonight the words feel profound and meaningful and declarative. I’m not done. Let’s get going.”
Well, I woke up in the morning and kept writing.
What am I not done with? This life business, of course. You know: “I still have things to say.” Time to get on with saying them, right? “I’m not the same without you.” So who am I now, as I continue to move on without my life’s partner? And what am I going to do about it? …
The music itch keeps itching. I heard a melody as I was writing “I’m not done” — that should be a clue to me. There are guitars less than 10 feet from this chair — what am I waiting for? No, not yet.
“I’m not done.” Is it the title song of an album? a poetry collection? a book of essays with “War IS the Crime” as the first section?
And, hang on — who cares if I’m done or not? What do you care?
Maybe what I’m trying to say, not just to myself but to people who feel old and beaten, or young and defeated, is — you’re not done. This is not the apocalypse or the End Times. Life is going to continue after the crisis, after the bad stuff we’re going through is overcome and finished.
So what are we going to do about it? What future are we going to make? Me, it looks like I’m going to keep babbling and writing books and maybe a few songs — what are you going to contribute? What future do you plan to make?
John Mellencamp has written many wise things, but one of the wisest is, “Life goes on long after the thrill is living is gone.” At first blush that’s a bleak thought, but it’s true. The universe doesn’t stop ’versing along while you grieve and recover from whatever set you down or knocked you back.
Here’s another thing, though: You can hunt down the thrill of living and recapture it. What’s lost is lost, and so whatever rekindles the thrill of living is going to look different from that original little ditty, but make no mistake — life goes on.
I look around after a couple of the worst years I’ve ever gone through, and my body is doing what bodies do — wearing out — and so the most grievous losses have hit me harder than any grief I’ve ever known. Through it all, I keep coming back to a basic fact: Life goes on. Oh, one day it won’t for me, but I’m not there yet, and even after I’m gone, and even after you’re gone, life will go on.
And so I’m back to the big question, the question that comes after life hits you with every conceivable body blow, and you look down and realize, “I’m still here,” and you look up and realize, “I’m not done.”
What future are we going to make?
I’m working on my answer to that question. I suggest you start working on yours. I’m fairly certain this ain’t the apocalypse, but even if it is, you need to know the answer just in case you survive it, because one thing is certain.
Life goes on.
