Yesterday, an ultimate player died at the fields.
Rumour has it, Ana Hammond had a heart arrythmia, and related to such, had a seizure on the fields yesterday. Players were unable to resusitate her, and she died. I don't know if she died on the sidelines or on the way to the hospital.
Ana was the third recent death of someone nominally in my life, someone I know at least peripherally. Gloria Henja died a few weeks, jumping from an over-freeway walkway into oncoming traffic, to escape the crushing torment of an ex-husband. Karen has been gone less than two years, but I think of her so very often.
Each death reminds me of mine, reminds me that, yes, my time here is limited; that I don't know what's next; that this isn't quite how I expected things to turn out (even though things are pretty good); that, no, I'm not going to accomplish so many of the ideas, hopes and dreams I've had.
Each death makes me rethink what's important, but so much I used to think was important really isn't and truly never was.
But I need to be careful. It's a fine line between deciding what's important and losing all hope.
Without a mountain to climb, life would be difficult, so hard to endure. Without a goal, more than just waking up in the morning, it's very, very hard.
God speed to the departed souls.