© Aron Hsiao / 2017
Sometimes I sit down and try to accept all of the things that I know must come. The kids will grow up. My parents will go. My dogs will be gone. My days as a worker will end. My days as a person will end. I will not have been a millionaire. I will not have lived an ideal life. And so on.
I can’t do it. Despite efforts, I cannot get as far as acceptance. I writhe and twist and allow myself to suffer—sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours—as I confront these things. I always feel as though if I sit face-to-face with them long enough, and plainly—not with avoidance or denial or pleading in mind, just looking them full in the face—that at some point I will accept them; they will become normal; they will become plausible; they will become simple truths instead of inescapable threats. But so far, I have never managed to arrive at acceptance. Only at queasiness and disbelief.
On the other hand, what I can accept, easily at this point, is that they will all come nonetheless, and likely before I am able to accept them. This I can accept without hesitation.