I had become too wrapped up in the siren song of my own life. I was busy. What happened to me? I asked myself.
Morrie’s high, smoky voice took me back to my university years, when I thought rich people were evil,
a shirt and tie were prison clothes, and life without freedom to get up and go
motorcycle beneath you, breeze in your face, down the streets of Paris,
into the mountains of Tibet—was not a good life at all.
What happened to me? The eighties happened. The nineties happened.
Death and sickness and getting fat and going bald happened.
I traded lots of dreams for a bigger paycheck, and I never even realized I was doing it.
Yet here was Morrie talking with the wonder of our college years, as if I’d simply been on a long vacation.
“Have you found someone to share your heart with?” he asked.
“Are you giving to your community? Are you at peace with yourself? Are you trying to be as human as you can be?”
I squirmed, wanting to show I had been grappling deeply with such questions.
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