January 25 was the birthday of a good friend, Siddhartha Gautam. He died over 20 years ago.
And, strangely, it’s as if he’s not dead.
He’s forever young – he died in his twenties, while all of us have gone on to grow older. He was also one of the most brilliant, and perhaps effective, people I’ve ever met. In college would churn out a fifteen or twenty page paper in a night, leaving those of us who were less talented feeling befuddled.
But there’s something else. Responding to a recent post, an old friend, Linda Goodman, suggested that I’m fine as I am and that there’s no need to change. I appreciate the words. And yet Siddhartha was better equipped than I, but he is gone and I am not.
So what responsibility do I have to do some work commensurate with the life he might have lived?
By virtue of my own pulse, what do I owe him?