Last week's column focused on the complexity of finding or even defining balance in life. It's always a boost when a Faithful Reader takes time to respond with question or comment. This week I got both. Thank you!

The comment presented a point of view different than my own and, consequently, was thought-evoking. "Bud" wrote: "Trying to decide how to balance a life is pointless. Life happens. We do the best we can to get by. Then we die. Take it as it comes and don't waste time trying to fix what ain't broke."

Yeah. Adapting to unplanned circumstances is part of survival, no question. Where we part ways is the passive phrase "life happens." Then, Bud suggests, we do what we can to stay alive, sane, solvent or whatever else is threatened. We are reactive. My nature calls for proactive energy. I don't just sit and wait worth a darn. If we lack a vision, we drift, victim of the tides. Having a vision using the tides to speed us toward fulfillment only seems sensible.

Probably balance-of-response comes from using a tide table for navigation, while recognizing storms come up, whatever the tide, sometimes blowing us on the rocks. If we don't learn from experience, then we are an even weirder species than we've proven ourselves to be so far. Bud's right: some things are unexpected, so being able to flex is a huge asset.

"Sally" wrote, "What I remember of my life are the extremes. The best this or the worse that. Isn't that what adds up to feeling alive?"

Hmmm. She's right: Being close to death or in despair heightens awareness of life's transience. So does being slap-happy in love, writing a good sentence and giving a gift that truly pleases. Does it take extremes to feel alive? I don't think so. Sitting by the river, watching for a fish to flash silver against the dark bank or following the sine wave of a flight of goldfinch awakens my senses as surely as Mah Dawg's eager insistence that a stick be thrown for fetching. These things seem like middle ground, perhaps even instances of balance. Good observation, Sally, which set off a mental exploration of some of my own extremes.

THE WORST VOLUNTARY THING I'VE EVER DONE. I killed an elk. With a rifle. Not because I needed his flesh for survival (which, maybe, would have been justified) or because he ravaged my garden. I did it because I could, to show off. I didn't even have the decency to bleed or gut him. Fifty-five years later, I know I violated my ethic: I wasted life for ego and entertainment.

I have zero interest in passing judgment on responsible hunters/fishers: They deal with their morality; I deal with mine. I don't aspire to convert and I resist like a wolverine anyone trying it on me. Inciting questions is my intention, not providing answers other than for myself.

THE MOMENT OF GREATEST RELIEF came with the results showing my youngest son did not have leukemia.

HARDEST CHALLENGE. The four years when my son, husband and father died, I almost lost the house I was born in to taxes and my degenerative disc disease threatened to flatten me. Then, I lost my job.

GREATEST FEARS. Sniveling, pathetic, embarrassing physical dependency compounded by being ungracious about assistance needed or offered. Someone getting between me and the door when it's time to go.

MOMENTS OF GREATEST PRIVILEGE. When people have shared their deepest feelings and experiences, trusting me to keep their secrets.

JOYOUS TIMES. So many! Laughing banter. Learning new tools. Discovery of creative possibilities within my grasp. Deep, life-long friendships. Living where and how I chose, with a good man who makes the impossible happen.

WHAT I ANTICIPATE. An increasing absorption with the natural world until I return my minerals to Earth (later, much later!) and then chances to evolve in other lifetimes.

Do I have and have I led a balanced life? Nope, but neither is it stagnant nor bland.

Peg Elliott Mayo writes from the Coast Range. She invites comment at uncommonideas@rivervoices.com and readers to her blog: www.peak.org/~pegmayo/