I take inventory. The next funny feeling sends me to the doctor. “You want to do an electrocardiogram? Sure. It’s fine? Good.”

I’m growing into the dark circles I’ve always had under my eyes. I bet when people meet me they no longer wonder why that young girl has such dark hollows. No, dark circles suit the territory: new aches; new pains; age sprinkles down on people and body parts randomly.

I’m almost getting used to this older person I see in the mirror. Thigh dimples still shock me. But it’s time to buckle up all belts, double down all vities, floss nightly, plan for the future, live like there’s no tomorrow. Living well is the best revenge, isn’t it?

I can comfort the grieving, but I’d better not get swept up in the tide of sadness. I know that it’s out there and when it aims at me it’ll be a tsunami.

I’ve made some time for comfort routines and rituals. I never used to allow myself routines; I thought they were each a little death. They are, but now they seem a caring, loving gesture. I have a full pot of coffee in the morning—I even sit down. There’s a hot tub before bed. And when I leave my routines behind for travel or some other demand on my time, I miss them. Routines are like botulinum; they can kill, but just a little bit smooths away the harshness of everyday.

I feel liberation and creativity in this post-period period. The second shift ends. I’ve graduated from my responsibilities to a child in my home. Maybe I don’t have the same kind of energy I once had, but I’ve come to grips with my plans and limitations. I’m not facing off against the whole world–just my little corner of it. I have some time for myself.

Not everyone will find this creative spot, this time for herself. It depends on a number of things, but health is a big one. Health will take some away, make some unable, or too cautious. It will chain some into taking care of the others.

“OK, Death I see you, and your illness, disease, disability, breaks, pins, pains, aspirin, stents, stunts, rehab… Mortality smacks and it smirks. Made you look.”

My friend escaped this time, but it’s left a nasty welt across his cheek. I can tell this is the beginning of a process. I hope it’s a long dance, a slow dance, with warm clutches and sensible shoes. I can tell the music is going to shift to the minor key from time to time, unexpectedly. When the needle lifts with a scratch or a gouge, I’ll have to run to grab a seat, catch mybreath, flash a smile and improvise.

I know Jeff’s light goes on in the giant relay of life. A baby is born, a girl finds a butterfly and opens her heart to friends, students, and someday children of her own. A teacher opens the windows in so many minds to so many opportunities. The rich golden streak that used to pour from Jeff’s fingertips into drum sticks or baton or bic pen or up his throat into a peppery call-to-order streams out of many of us, each in our own way. That’s the energy that brings out our best.

But loss is here and now. It’s sudden and it’s shocking. Goodbye Jeff Cumpston. As much as I feel your loss I cannot imagine your family’s grief. I hope they continue to find the many stars you shared with us.

The King of Pop is dead. Broadcasters would suck us into the dramatic lens, telling us what to do and when and where, offering emotional irritation and then catharsis. What a welcome break from those awful, yawning, impossible-to-solve issues that crowd in at us from every continent. For moments, we are softened and disapproval fades. What’s the point of disapproval, anyway? The King of Pop is dead. Long live the Pop.

No big grief here. I love a good tribute, thanks, and that’s enough, now. The press, adoration, money, waste, creepiness: it all seems part of the overwhelming imperative of stardom, an audience so fickle in its judgment, but idolatrous all the same. No more new ideas? Is it such a shame to be out of ideas? I don’t have to know why fans slather it on so thick. It’s kind really, forgetting the weird and reviving the beautiful. Of course we could do that anytime, but the grief-fountain mobilizes.

In the meantime, a real man, a friend of a friend tragically cut down stirs a sense of loss for the world, the community and the family. It was unfair, random and unexplained, just like death is, whenever it lurches out beyond the old and sick and frail. I much prefer the un-lurched venue.

People who leave this world without adding to our own sense of frailty allow us a stately dignified pause—stirring in honor, peace and resolution. And there’s room for that too, in this crowded time of dying. An old man, Ezra Gordon, was an architect, a man I met and spoke to a few years ago, when his sparkling eyes drew me in. He built buildings, both noticed and taken for granted each day. His passing offers me a quiet, thoughtful moment. Thanks.