A strange thing has happened to me.
Not bad, just strange.
I remember when I was a kid, small kid, I read about a guy named Albert Schweitzer. I know who he is now, but back then, he was this white guy who went to Africa to help people. I don't think I even really knew where Africa was.
This was all in Life Magazine. Too bad for you who never got to experience that publication. It was a sprawling, lap-sized magazine that, really, told the story of America. Or part of it.
Schweitzer. A Life reporter asked him about his reverence for life, his belief of not killing any creature. He said something to the effect, "And that would include even a flea." I thought he was crazy.
Now, at 74, I'm finding that I find it hard to kill anything--yes, even a fly. If it's a moth or a spider or a wasp, I'll do my damndest to capture it with a paper towel and release it outside. Didn't do that before.
Perhaps getting older makes one sharper and clearer about life, being alive, what it is that makes someone or something alive. It is the great mystery. Holy, if anything.