Thanks for Asking: Unsolicited Advice on How to Live

The other day Second Daughter asked me what I'd be thinking about on my deathbed: more about myself, perhaps reflecting back on my life, or more about others, telling them things I meant to tell them before.

Cheerio, happy talk!

I thought a bit, threw in a few criteria for variables (am I alone or do I have visitors? Going fast or going slowly?), and decided I'd probably be sharing things I meant to tell them sooner, maybe some things I'd learned because I want to spare them my hard lessons.

"Won't you be telling us those things all along?" she asked. (I'm sure it feels as if I offer up enough advice on a daily basis.)

"Well, yes, but you learn things all the time and I'll be reflecting back with the perspective of more years than I have now." (Knock on wood.)

As if having two daughters didn't tax my unsolicited-advice-giving reflexes enough, I blog on the topic every so often.

To save them time when I'm gone and they wish they'd paid more attention to my wisdom while I was alive (hint hint), here's a round-up of past posts on Life and Important Stuff:

Postscript: Eldest Daughter wandered in while I was working on this post. She mentioned something about life or dying and I said I was writing a blog post about that. 

"You're writing a blog post in preparation for your death? How morbid!" 

The conversation took other turns, but then she looked over my shoulder as I uploaded the graphic. "You ARE writing a blog post about your death! Shouldn't you be updating your will instead?" 

Me: "Well, that isn't self-interest talking." 

Her: "What? I can't wear your shoes, we have different taste in furniture, I don't like your curtains, I don't want your money--what are you going to leave me?" 

She glanced around the room, clearly looking for something worth having in memoriam, and spotted the bookcase. "Candles! And CDs." (She already has most of my book collection in her room.)

Macbeth, Act V, Scene V:

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
to the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fool
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

Or Macbeth, Act III, Scene IV:

Stand not upon the order of your going,
But go at once.

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