If tomorrow never arrives and we are stuck in yesterday, will that be enough--enough to say goodbye?

Perhaps I'm not so very different than others. As I age, I am continually shocked at the reflection in the mirror. Why am I cursed, blessed with memories that have lasted decades? I've never been able to retire the abuse of childhood and although I have risen far above being a victim, there is an inner voice that screeches for clarification.

What was the point? I have been paying attention. I have not hidden behind a label--no Baptist, Buddhist or Muslim, never-the-less, I have always been tuned in--I listen, reflect and fester.

I absolutely know it would be easy to hide behind a sect or culture and shroud myself with doctrine and I am very clear that even if I reach a plateau of understanding, it won't matter.

I was born through a woman, seeded and nurtured by a world that never comforted me. True to my biological nature, I contributed, birthed and reared a child, but at the best of times, I felt functional--not brilliant, nor enlightened. I've stopped searching for the meaning of life and know that I will go to my death with whatever wisdom I may have garnered. Nobody cares. It's a lonely journey--this life thing.

A few fortunate people find a soul mate, and I will never turn my nose up or dismiss these lucky folks; they have someone who shares their ignorance on an equal plain, a field of inquisitive denial. We are all narcissistic, thinking our lives were meaningful, and did I think mine was too? Sure, I made a difference--I really did--but not to a deity--to people.

If there really is a judgement day, I think I'll get my just rewards for being a shepherd, a lowly, lonely figure that felt the presence of God, but was denied an audience. I'm reminded of a trip to England, a circle that my tour guide drove around Buckingham Palace and announced that The Queen was in residence. I distinctly remember calculating the distance--the separation of space that excluded me from her world. I had an itch--I scratched and wondered briefly, if the queen ever got itchy.

For a while, when I was still seeking answers, I cottoned up to the notion of reincarnation. I imagined that I was a ferret, then a dog and finally a whale with a blow hole spewing out water, recycled ingestion, a library card--a simple loan--what's it all about, Alfie? For sure a dog didn't get depressed when he turned forty or ten. He still got excited when his food bowl got filled or his leash was pulled out of the closet. Ferrets, dogs and whales don't ponder their demise--they just live until it's over. And even in death, as I have witnessed, they cope, deal with the new experience, and move on--perhaps to oblivion--but it's not tragic.

While still in my reincarnation phase, I was astonished by the number of people who thought they were Napoleon or Cleopatra. People assign so much significance to the multi-tasking body they inhabit, taking credit for breathing and thriving. Me? I was a scullery maid. But even then--I made a difference.

And today, I'll make a difference, if not in God's book, then certainly in my own.