Reading along in my Nora Gallagher book, it occurs to me that at this very moment I am living while others have died or were never born. I am sitting here in the sunlight, among the scents of a garden and the tweets and chirps of birds. In the sea of overlapping lifespans of individuals, mine is at its midpoint. In honour of the many who have lived and died, I will savor this moment, this hour, this life. I will cherish this journey, while I still walk it.

The journey is strange and wondrous, by turns aimful and aimless. I began it carried on the shoulders of others; I then walked on my own with uncertainty. I am now used to the trek, comfortable with the routine of walking. But I am not yet certain of my destination, or the direction in which it lies. Perhaps this unknowing, this routine, is exactly where I need to be. Like a still pond, sure of itself, still itself when a rock is heaved into it, absorbing the new element, and still itself afterward, perhaps I am to live at peace with the uncertainty, an existential peace rather than one of destiny.