Once again nature has proven to us that Google notwithstanding, we know nothing. We read up on the facts while we prepared to be doting grandparents, only to find that isn’t how things really work in DoveLand. They know what they’re doing, it’s all written into their DNA, and our sporadic observation of their habits does not reveal to us the secrets. We’d hoped to see the chicks’ first flights, but David and Darleen very efficiently wrapped up the training course, possibly under cover of darkness, and the kids are gone, just like that. Yesterday morning when I went spying, Derek and Diane had moved to the east edge of the balcony, still under the ferns but positioned for escape, and their bright eyes and shiny feathers, freed from all the downy fluff, told me they were ready. When I saw this morning that the nest was empty it was no surprise, but a bit of melancholy set in since they left without saying goodbye.
Not to worry, Dave and Dar are already giddily at work on a new nest in the other planter where the ferns are thicker and taller, thus providing greater comfort and security than did their starter home. We hope this will become a tradition, so next spring’s plantings will be timed to encourage exactly that.
Having birds on the balcony, as opposed to bats in the belfry, is teaching me a few sweet lessons while plowing up my heart a little, as is required from time to time. Maybe the best reminder has been that life goes on, so go WITH it. Thank you, David, Darleen, and progeny for your patience and presence.
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After being angels for weeks, today’s Mickey D’s run will be just what the doctor ordered. Love happens in every flavor, especially cheese and chocolate.
It’s Thursday, and you know what that means… HOW IS THE WEEKEND HERE AGAIN ALREADY??? Bizarre, but enjoy every minute of it.
Second item on my list after getting out of bed this morning was to check on the Dove family, and I had a prescient little sense that something would be different this time. My first look at the nest told me there wasn’t a parent bird in attendance, and when I peeked inside there were two little chicks, wing by wing, looking up at me totally unspooked by my presence. Kim got home from his walk in time to see the babies, and he pointed out that David and Darleen were on the next-door neighbors’ balcony railing, quietly keeping watch. Must be time for the little ones to start gaining a bit of bravado and independence – they’re in the nest for only two weeks before being booted out to make way for Round Two. Such a high-speed upbringing boggles my mind. Once again this is a stock photo, but Derek and Diane look just like this at the moment, and my mama heart wishes them every success. So now we know. Two babies. Two weeks (minus time served) to enjoy them. Expect flying lessons soon.
Answers to the things we wonder about. Answers to the things we care most about… those, too. Five of the people I cherish most in the world need answers to health crises, and that’s a wait that relentlessly saps strength and courage over time. Loving people means hurting with them, that’s just how it is. May their answers turn out to be as instinctive, timely, and real as fledglings taking off for the skies.
All things considered, the heavy-duty requirement at this stage of living might be PATIENCE. Life goes on, things happen, things change for better or worse, and, well… life goes on. If you’re reading this, you’ve lived through everything that’s happened to you, every second since you were born. Base your patience on that knowledge, and keep walking. Or, like me, DO something, right or wrong, and hope for the best. Your call.
Have a lovely weekend and a solemn Memorial Day observance. Summer’s almost here!
A few major commitments having been lovingly attended to, the world feels open for the taking today. Sunshine, balmy temps, no wind, just what the doctor ordered for strapping on the sandals and hauling the carcass out into the fresh air. Did that. Felt good. By which I mean breathing fresh air is never a bad thing, but the carcass protested all the way. I’ve lost a little ground over the winter and into the woods, but nothing a bunch of dedicated torture won’t fix. Zero nerve pain, which is the whole point, just nervy muscles protesting their late-spring awakening, and they’ll get with the program soon enough.
We can’t see the neighborhood right now for the dense leaf cover, but it’s lovely down at ground level. The early bees have been fed and nurtured, so most of the dandelions have been mowed, and the eclectic yards are beautiful, each in its own way. Life on the edge of perpetual hippiedom has suited us well here and our hearts benefit every day.
Health is a temperamental thing. We think we have the whole system nailed down and something turns on us. But we no sooner speak a discouraging word to ourselves than the sun breaks out and voilá, we feel almost human again and possibilities abound! A moment of silence for Kim, who will likely be cajoled into tackling one of our last bastions of disarray… the dreaded Mantry. I can’t do it without him because the shelves are full of tools, musical instruments, sound equipment, cooking paraphernalia, and other objects I dare not make decisions about. And we have to question whether or not I can do it WITH him for precisely the same reasons. Degaussing the Mantry also necessitates, at the same time, a vicious cleansing of our storage cage down in the garage, oh my, all of which Kimmers is up for, we’re just slow starters. So yeah, keep a good thought because I can’t wait.
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Today I’m in Mood #2 because there’s nothing on my calendar. Tomorrow and Friday I have appointments, so on those days I will revert to Default Mood #1. If you’re an anxiety baby I don’t even have to tell you.
Meanwhile, David & Darleen and their babies Derek & Diane keep us in Zen mode. We have to keep things copacetic… you know, for the kids.
Since you’re no doubt wondering, I’m happy to tell you that our new balcony residents are figuring things out quite nicely and adapting to their chosen surroundings. David seems to be made of good stuff and ready for fatherhood, and I found out yesterday that although he stays out all night every. single. night, he’s out there with his ride-or-dies, feeding as a gang for reasons of personal safety, not being drunk and disorderly and annoying the single chicks. He contentedly sleeps all day until Darleen comes home from her own breakfast, lunch, and dinner out, presumably with equally-safe friends, so I’ve stopped cooing at him in English and simply leave him to his rest. They picked us for their own set of reasons and likely the first was for protection. They individually listen to our conversations as we’re in and out, and have never shown the least uneasiness. They stay perfectly still and calm when we speak to them in quiet tones, never ruffling a feather or twitching an eye. Several days in, I’m fairly sure I could pet Darleen and she wouldn’t flinch, but I’m not about to disturb her vigil. If all goes according to plan and they do become parents, David will probably get a little feisty toward approaching landlords/grandparents. He’ll stomp his feet and exercise his wings and no doubt fix us with the evil eye… so we’ll not intrude. Or maybe just a quick look at the baby/babies. The only peek we’ve had inside the nest showed one egg, but the book says there are probably two by now.
It feels excellent that they’re here of their own volition, and David’s drowsy presence behind my chair on warm afternoons is utterly peace-giving. I can hardly remember a day in the past three years when my heart wasn’t in an uproar over something or other, so this little couple’s insistence upon moving in with us is incredibly sweet and timely. To encourage them to rent from us again next spring, we’re considering one of these, placed near this season’s nest, and maybe we’ll even have it up in time for this season’s second brood. They’d customize it in a heartbeat.
It humbles us that David and Darleen observed us for a day or two, decided we were trustworthy, and moved right on in. We know, especially this girl right here, that any given morning could bring heartache because of a ransacked nest, but you have to care about something and for the next month at least, it’s the Dove family.
David and Darleen and their pending family are already making a nicer person of me, so add your “thank-you,” world, you’re the better for it.
David and Darlene Dove blew into town last week on a wing and a prayer. Short on funds and pressed for time, they were experiencing a housing crisis, and having just discovered that Darlene was pregnant, suitable accommodations were an urgent necessity. After checking out one spot after another with no success, Darlene was exhausted and ready to give up when they saw one more place that held promise. It turned out the available space was small but could be made to work under the circumstances, so they met briefly with the landlord and his wife and moved in, hoping for the best. And not a moment too soon, because by the next morning a small white bundle had made its appearance in the new love nest and a clear routine was in place.
David, whose impending fatherhood induced him to settle for less than ideal living conditions, takes the day shift with the bundle, while Darlene gets out of the house, does the shopping, runs errands, maybe makes new friends as things are tough in unfamiliar surroundings. When Darleen gets home around 5:30, she and David exchange information about the preceding hours, and then she settles in while he takes off for points unknown until morning. Believe me, the landlord’s wife notices these things, but it’s none of her business so she doesn’t say anything. Except privately to David on sunny afternoons when he’s trying to sleep, but he never bats an eye so she’s wasting her breath.
The landlord and wifey aren’t bad sorts and they worry about the young couple and their circumstances. They also suspect there’s not one but two small bundles in the new household and wonder if it will all work out. The apartment they’ve let to the couple is truly a fixer-upper, with room for only natural growth, but it IS fully air-conditioned and solar heated and boasts a spectacular view. The landlords, in all honesty, tried to steer them in a better direction, but they were desperate and determined, so… here we all are, making the best of it.
Their roof leaks like it wasn’t even there, but there’s relative safety next to the bricks, and the planter affords shelter from the wind. They’re very tolerant of our presence… I sit six inches from their makeshift home and neither has tried to peck my eyes out yet.
MeetDavid & Darleen Dove
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Darleen preparing to take the overnight watch
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David’s fat little self trying to sleep while the landlady speaks sweet nothings to him
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What we think the nest contains
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Our new renters are American mourning doves, or rain doves, colloquially known as the turtle dove. It is one of the most abundant and widespread of all North American birds and a popular gamebird. Its ability to sustain its population under such pressure is due to its prolific breeding; in warm areas, one pair may raise up to six broods of two young each in a single year. The wings make an unusual whistling sound upon take-off and landing, a form of sonation. The bird is a strong flier, capable of speeds up to 88 km/h (55 mph).
Mourning doves are light gray and brown and generally muted in color. Males and females are similar in appearance. The species is generally monogamous, with two squabs (young) per brood. Both parents incubate and care for the young. Mourning doves eat almost exclusively seeds, but the young are fed crop milk by their parents.
Wikipedia says: A Huron/Wyandot legend tells of a maiden named Ayu’ra (probably more accurately spelled Iohara, a common Iroquois girl’s name today) who used to care for a mourning dove, who came to love her a great deal. One day, the maiden became sick and died. As her spirit traveled across the land to the entrance to the Underworld, all the doves followed her and tried to gain entrance into the Underworld alongside her. Sky Woman, the deity who guards this door, refused them entry, eventually creating smoke to blind them and take Ayu’ra’s spirit away without their knowledge. The smoke stained their feathers gray and they have been in mourning for the maiden’s loss ever since. The logic behind the story is a play on words—the sound many Native Americans attributed to the bird was “howe howe,” and this is also the sound the Iroquoian peoples used to chant over the dead at funerary events.
The above notwithstanding, it’s believed to be good luck when a mourning dove pair chooses you, so we’re going with that and feeling grateful.
Since you’re all so kind, I can’t get anyone here to hold me accountable to reach my goals; therefore, I’ve had to exercise over-the-top discipline in order to avoid making a liar of myself. Those projects I’ve mentioned? I have good news…
You remember my nemesis, the 12′ x 7′ x 14′ high closet lined with shelves on three sides, which has been the repository for a wide assortment of belongings since about 2015 when I started losing mobility… you recall my brave words, right? I’m thrilled to report that it now looks like springtime in that space – a breath of fresh air – and life in general, just like that, holds more promise and feels absolutely doable. It’s like turning on a floodlight in a dark cavern, except that the surroundings revealed are entirely friendly. As I stood back admiring my work yesterday I said a mental “up yours” to the Senior Surgeon who told me there was nothing that could be done about my back, so… I guess just go home and give up, which my brain did without informing me in advance, thus putting life on hold. That haphazardly-packed closet represents the biggest win I can think of in about that many years and I’m savoring it. There’s also this: over a ten-year period I helped empty six longtime homes of loved ones, and I made a solemn vow not to put John through that. It’s an educational, revelatory, emotional, gut-ripping experience, which he’s already done once singlehandedly, so the less Kim and I leave behind, the better. Best-case scenario would be to close things out like saints, with a fork apiece and some clean underwear, but simple living and a love for open spaces will at least keep us moving in that direction.
The biggest win of all is that now, in 2023, the more I move the better I feel. That’s worth sticking around for.
And now I’m ready to focus on something I love even more than re-homing things, which is to finish editing a friend’s manuscript. I’m fairly certain it’s the calling I missed in life, that of helping to fine-tune good writing while consuming it at the same time. Bossy, nitpicking girl loves books, win/win.
A glance up the page affirms that this year has been more about gains than losses, more about the wins in spite of how dark so many days have felt in their endless passage. That’s a good thing to know because of how it colors the rest of life… sometimes the wins are so hard-won we feel beat up by them instead of validated and encouraged. At this late date, I might be finally starting to understand the process through which we come to know and love ourselves. It’s never too late.
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Take your innate kindness and human understanding with you all week and spread that stuff all over everything. The world needs it so much.
For the past few years, most days have seemed at least 36 hours long, with more blank-feeling time than I knew what to do with. In my new gung-ho “let’s do ALL the things” mode, I signed up for two KU classes and whatever daily system I had left is already shot to hell. That’s okay, it’s not yet obvious to the naked eye so we’ll survive, and I was getting pretty tired of all that perfection anyway. Oh, I laugh.
This afternoon will be the second of my three “Invitation to Poetry” classes, and it’s gratifying to realize how much I’m looking forward to it. Tomorrow morning will be more Kansas history, and maybe one day this week I’ll have the energy to clear a wider path in our big Everything closet. I’ve managed to create enough chaos in that space, I either need to finish it ASAP or just call “College Hunks Hauling Junk” and make a clean break.
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Moral support helps everybody, the more the better, and by reaching out you just might save a life.
Not every source of support proves to be this trustworthy… but never stop be-leafing.
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… even when bitterly disappointed by the discoveries you make along the way.
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However distracted we might be, we can’t afford to lose sight of what matters:
We have crossed the spring equinox and claimed the far banks of the Rubicon, so there’s no going back now, right? Winter’s finished, right? This morning’s rain is entirely made of springtime, am.I.right? Just say yes, I’m ready for the great outdoors in all its friendliness, aren’t you?
The first day of spring was also first day of school for this girl. I registered for two KU Osher Institute classes for seniors, one of which meets two blocks away, the other on campus, and the first 2-hour session was yesterday. I think there were thirteen of us boomers in the room, including the retired professor teaching the class, and the atmosphere was lovely. This one is called “An Invitation to Poetry” and seems to be everything I’d hoped it would be… comfy room, congenial people, teacher who knows his stuff in all the best ways. Twice he made tears pop into my eyes when he read lines from poems I didn’t know but want to, and he doesn’t even seem the type. I’d have guessed he taught history or the sciences, not the arts… and possibly the best part of all is the genuine love of subject that immediately comes through.
It was a happy start, and this morning I’ll begin a class called “Pioneering Stories from the Settling of Emporia and Lyon County, Kansas.” I chose this one because that’s where my grandma grew up, in a dugout/soddy/clay/stone challenge of a dwelling that included space for the livestock. She was born in 1889 and hard times accompanied most everything in her life, but she survived and thrived to the age of 96, a personal goal of mine. I’d never knock the living conditions, but neither do I want to try that mode at this point… it wasn’t for sissies:
Photo taken during a visit by family in the 1950s or so, the homestead having been abandoned long before.
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So for three consecutive Mondays and Tuesdays I get to be a student again, and it feels excellent to be back in that quietly invigorating atmosphere. And yes, I’m scouring the course listings for anything else that might spark new synapses because this morning’s dose of NE Kansas history was intriguing and I’m ready for more. In two hours we covered the years from when Kansas was still a territory, to Quantrill’s reign of terror, including the (at least) thrice burning of the town of Lawrence. We aren’t Bleeding Kansas for nothing… it bought us the privilege of being Free Kansas, a heritage worth fighting for.
I saw the following piece of advice yesterday, have made a similar folder, and will tuck this graphic inside along with any and all encouragement that shows up in my life in coming days. That stuff’s precious and should be kept in a warm dry place at all times.
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Now that spring’s officially here, it’s time to get back to making each consecutive day just a little better than the one before, so…
We’re nine days from spring and the rain we need for the greening of NE Kansas has been showing up. So sweet and benign, all the soft water from the sky, and we hope it stays this friendly since Kansas weather is nothing if not unpredictable.
Of course, tonight’s the big night… it’s time to spring forward an entire hour and spend the rest of the year searching for that lost jigger of salt. Don’t forget.
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The lost hour symbolizes every trauma, whether infinitesimal or overwhelming, we’ve sustained over the past however-many years now. We’ve lived through scary illnesses that had to be handled on our own because PANDEMIC. We lived through said pandemic… so far. We’ve survived cockamamie politics; over-the-top injustice; incomprehensible cruelty; the abject hatred of our fellow man; and every other thing that’s part of the human experience. Here we stand, damaged, wounded, but ever hopeful for better days. We’re pitiful but we’re all we’ve got, boys and girls, so hold hands and keep taking new territory. Trauma’s most powerful enemy is truth – use it at every opportunity.
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Speaking of trauma… my new friend Erica and I worked on rooting out some more of it yesterday in my second hour-long massage. Her amazing hands know where pain lurks and she’s fairly merciless already… hurts so good, can’t wait to go back.
Small psychic traumas are gradually resolving as well, including a sense of rootlessness and lack of purpose. At some point after the lifelong nerve pain disappeared, my brain started working on the problem of “Okay, who am I NOW? I can finally do pretty much what I want… what’s that going to look like?” After a few months’ rumination on that question, it came to me one day not long ago that at 75 I don’t have to go out and reinvent myself in order to pay my dues as a resident of the planet. I already HAVE a life, here in this smallish space, that requires my involvement and TLC, and could take up most of my time if I wanted it to. This is good. I’m home. Having said that, I’ll be branching out a teensy bit in a couple of weeks, so stay tuned.
Everything that happens to us feels like such a big deal at the time because we’re hothouse flowers with intense feelings, so it takes time and perspective for our personal traumas to start turning loose of us. Sometimes we like them too much, which complicates the whole thing. Those hurts and slights and terrifying wounds tend to validate our existence, so they feel like our buddies rather than the thoughts and memories that will eventually paralyze us and shorten our lucid days.
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I take Sir Winston to heart…
“This is the lesson: never give in, never give in, never, never, never—in nothing, great or small, large or petty—never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force; never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.” (whomever/whatever you perceive that enemy to be)
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Above all, never lose sight of this befuddled truth, brought to you by the Society for the Proliferation of Crap Platitudes.
A weekend state of mind settles down upon #lfk by 5pm on any given Thursday, providing a quasi-4-day chunk of R&R out of every seven. Something about bars, restaurants, sports, and living in a university town guarantees this laid-back state of mind and I take to it like a duck to water, if mostly as an observer.
It’s a happy week here, with our Jayhawk boys winning the basketball conference title for the 20th time in the league’s 24-year existence. Their statistics are off the charts this season, and it’s beyond fun to live in the midst of the celebration. FACT: Winning feels better than losing. My love of well-played sports puts a little wedge between me and a few of my friends, who find it at odds with my core pacifism, but there will be no justifications forthcoming – I’m that girl, and other people’s thoughts are none of my business.
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Also this. Says the same thing as above, and covers all bases.
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Speaking of bras, I’m pretty sure Oklahoma just banned Dolly Parton:
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That’s your semi-regular load of random, boys and girls, do with it what you will, and make good stuff out of the weekend. Try to fare better than the Peeps – in which the key is “Don’t Be Fake.”
Our forecast was for overnight snow, but what we have is frozen fog on the streets and sidewalks, curtailing most outdoor activity until the sun arrives, which may not be anytime soon. Kim canceled his morning walk after skating to the trash building and back, and people are navigating our intersection at Granny speed. No walkers below my windows, which is slightly eery… but the mood all up in here is sanguine and patient, waiting for what will be. Kim’s making oatmeal to get us started, and as long as I fold and store a stack of laundry, and make it to a haircut after lunch, I will have justified my existence for another day. I half hope my hairdresser is staying tucked in today, as there’s hardly a safe surface for man nor beast. A friend posted this about the current situation at our hospital complex:
He added that there are slide-offs and vehicle pileups all over town. Our balcony is now strewn with what look like pellets of dry ice, the streets are slick with black ice, and today’s high temp will remain below freezing, so yeah, good day to hide by the fire if you have one.
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If everything shuts down for the day, that leaves lots of time for thinking, likely the riskiest thing I engage in now. How many of us thought we’d either be a completed work by 75, or dead, and here I am still trying to know myself before the ride stops. Things happen for which I realize too late I’m woefully unprepared… but how can this be? I’ve been there done that, but the capacity to ignore reality persists. Observing my grandmothers, who all seemed sort of “old” by the time I was fully aware of them, led me to believe that after a certain age serenity sets in and nothing can ruffle all that accumulated knowledge and experience. Not so much, sorry to say. Here’s the piece that matters: We stay approximately the same age inside for our entire lives, merely adjusting to the times as we go along… or not.
Something I’m newly grateful for… after living here for almost ten years, I finally have my own personal care team in place and it’s making all the difference. Keri owns my hair, Jourdan keeps my piggies looking presentable, and Erica provides TLC for my achy body. Wonderful women who express themselves through giving. It matters.
And now last night’s snow has arrived and is falling thick and heavy. Kim delivered me to my haircut and back, across two city blocks and several feet of treacherous sidewalk, and we lived to tell about it. The fireplace will see us through. You stay safe, and enjoy what winter has to offer!
Sitting here in a zone of my own after another Saturday breakfast that outdid last week’s, wondering what my muse(s) might have to say on a sunny winter morning. After days of single-digit pre-dawns, the temp was above freezing this morning so Kim was out early making his Mass Street foray, and upon arrival back home gave me the benefit of his well-chilled hands, a cheap thrill for both of us.
Our Jayhawks have a B-ball game at 11am, so Kim’s brewing a second pot of coffee and our brains are on sportsing high-alert. It’s shaping up to be a Saturday worth hanging around for, with things lying in wait that we don’t even know about yet. Meanwhile, my brain is already off on tangents while it has some free time. I’m remembering that someone who knows me pretty well told me recently that I terrify them. Really? Me? Have you seen me in this decade? I don’t have it in me to harm the creatures of the earth, so they must have been referring to whatever comprises my core, a place I’m just now really exploring at this late date. I must make them feel a little like this:
Jeez, lady, wha’d I do??
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Let me just say that Mary Shelley got it.
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It’s simply that when someone of the female persuasion finally gets to what Stephanie’s talking about, it comes out fierce and a little terrifying. Good.
It’s been a good week all up in here, with visible progress to show for it. On Monday I organized email folders, dumping over 5,000 messages in the process, taking the time to unsubscribe as I went along. This situation exists because I don’t really USE email anymore, therefore it slides off my cracker on a regular basis and clogs all the pipes and drains in the communication system. These entities are doing their darnedest to impart urgent information to me, the least I can do is give them a decent burial in the far reaches of space. So that was Day One. On Tuesday I made actual phone calls (GASP!!) to schedule overdue medical appointments, three of them, and lived to tell about it. The problem with procrastination is that it’s entirely self-sustaining — once set in motion it’s good to go forever.
So it’s like this…
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Since Wednesday I’ve been sitting at the piano for about an hour every morning, which is just now possible again thanks to the spinal surgery. My sweet little concert grand needs a careful tuning, and the neighbors might be suffering since all the steel, concrete, and glass in our building conduct sound fairly efficiently, but it’s heaven to be playing again. Yesterday I combed through a book of show tunes, including some stuff from the 40s that my dad used to play, and it was a party of one, with people I remember well listening in.
Whatever hurts you, feel it and let it go. Music helps with that process. Especially if you’re lucky enough to love music.
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My recently-adopted motto for 2023:
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Having survived it for a while, I tend to yammer on about life, but here’s how it really is and you can take this to whatever bank you trust:
“Life is like arriving late for a movie, having to figure out what was going on without bothering everybody with a lot of questions, and then being unexpectedly called away before you find out how it ends.” ~Joseph Campbell
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For me, it continues to be about perspective in all things. And this makes me giggle:
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This week, barring the unforeseen, I shall dispense with a short stack of unsorted mail and empty a couple of in/out baskets, so there’s no lack of inspiration or fodder on the horizon yet and nothing in this house is safe from the urge to purge.
Three mornings from now it will be a new year. We make such a thing about restarts and clean slates that it tends to crank up the pressure right off the top, making the crispy-clean observance something less than joyful, so this time I’m proceeding on the basis that 2023 is NOBODY’S year, we’re all simply going to stroll nonchalantly to the door, peek through the peephole, open the barrier a crack, read the room, and hang around the coffee machine until the convo starts to sort itself out.
For me, 2023 says less is more. My plan, goal, thought, intent is that if and when the year 2024 shows its face, every drawer, shelf, cabinet, closet, space will have been scrutinized severely and lightened of its load. I feel guilty and heavy-laden if I’m harboring goods of the world for which I have no legit use, especially when I can envision others getting the benefit instead. Excess only adds to my anxiety, and one place that’s due for a purge is the desktop I’m typing on at the moment. Thousands of images, files, and folders must go in the name of mental health. It could happen… bit by bit, step by step.
Random thoughts and admonishments, curated to take us into the immediate future…
Alternatively, I might assign myself the task of adopting more freedom and flexibility.
Peace. Quiet. Insulation from the bitter cold. Isolation from the bitter of any sort. These are welcome qualities embedded in The Day After, and with a steaming mug of Kim’s coffee in hand, parked in front of my space heater, eye on the frigid streets below, where absolutely nothing is happening at 9am… it’s an okay perspective, good for processing.
We did it, boys and girls. We’ve survived 2022 thus far, with enough optimism left over for contemplating yet another go ’round. Every new year, with its staggeringly-blank slate, presents an Offer We Can’t Refuse, so off we toddle like lemmings, eager to test the waters and prove the worth of all those valuable lessons we learned in past contests.
I have no idea what to expect from the year ahead, except that it will most likely play out in ways I could/would never program on my own. And it will undoubtedly be more of same in many ways, so the resulting balance/imbalance will be key as always. What will life look like as 2023 progresses?
In these days between Christmas and the New Year, we’re afforded an opportunity to think about that question in detail, should we be feeling especially brave and bold. How might things continue to change, for better or worse, since change itself is a given…
For me, 2022 was the year life actually did change big-time: I was provided a way to leave behind the nerve pain that had haunted the 50 years of my life just prior, thereby opening doors thought permanently closed to me. The effects are ongoing, with no reason to switch horses or alter plans, regardless of any setbacks, which are part of everything. A bad fall in October slowed me down but didn’t stop me, so we’re still bringing you our regularly-scheduled programming for the foreseeable future.
One thing humans are desperate for is restarts. “Let me try again. I can do better.” And more often than not, we do. I’m 100% for restarts and second chances and the grace to use them well, and I’m ready for lots more of that in the year ahead of us… grace, mercy, communication, comprehension. Connection.
This part of the calendar year is packed with holiday celebrations of every sort around the globe, with something in it for everyone. As we take a little time to wool-gather… reminisce… make a pin-cushion of our thoughts… I hope we’ll each gain a renewed sense of respect for each other and what it takes to coexist in the world. And work on doing just that…
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Welcome to my weekly blog on life's happiness. We are all human and we all deserve to smile. Click a blog title or scroll down. Thanks for stopping by.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
Playing for Time 
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