Aging with exuberance…

***

A lot of things have taken place over the past couple of weeks, one of which is that smiling and laughing are suddenly de rigueur again, praise be! For someone who was unceremoniously told, decades ago, that she laughs like a chicken, it’s like being let out of the henhouse to roam free! Be YOU, you crazy lil’ bandy-legged chick, nobody CARES!

So while our Sister in Joy and Laughter was busy making history, this girl here turned double 7s, which I believe is highly lucky. If you know otherwise, please don’t spoil my illusions, thx. I love the fact that I’ve made it this far, but already being within binocular range of 80 is messing with my head a little, so adjustments must be made and you know what THAT means… she’s thinking again.

I started blogging some 15 years ago on another platform in response to my son’s suggestion that it might be therapeutic. He was right, I loved it immediately, and when the original site folded I found Word Press and kept cranking out whatever was on my mind on any given day. Obviously, over that many years changes have taken place… and age has joined the chat. Profound shock. There is absolutely nothing other than being old on the inside (a tragedy) that could truly prepare a girl for her third trimester of living, nothing. But I’ve been here sharing insights for a bunch of years now, and been painfully honest with you in what I’ve said, and that won’t change… so buckle up.

“These are the days of miracle and wonder

This is the long distance call.” P. Simon

These are the days of the medical Rolodex, the recurring appointments with doctors and their teams, keeping the vehicle running. These, if you’re lucky and spoiled, are the days of pedis and haircuts and massages that truly do extend life by making it better.

These are the days of steroid shots in the joints, extra attention to the chompers, and various other things which, much like the Spanish Inquisition, NO ONE EVER EXPECTS.

These are the days when your optometrist skips most of the preliminaries and says “Let’s talk about your cataracts.”

These are the days of skin cancer paybacks for those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. The ones we thought would never end.

What gets your attention is the acceleration. One day you’re like “Well, not too bad so far. Doin’ what I can,” and the next you wake up to major mayhem that apparently occurred while you were sleeping. This spiral of crepe here when I turn my arm… when did that start? And these bingo arms! There are jowls in progress? How rude! The supreme sense of languid laziness every single morning when I’d planned to be a ball o’ fire for a change… it’s ubiquitous, as is the faint whiff of guilt that attends my daily existence. Welp, girl, that’s the way it is, walk it off.

After an incredible nine years of turmoil and division as a people, combined with the introspection it has sparked, this is a true statement:

**

Kids, here are the facts this morning as I know them. Our world is getting better not worse. Joy and laughter are not buried forever under the rubble of political correctness and planet-wide catastrophe. We’re still HERE! That means hope is alive and well. I’m catching this bus.

*

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The comforts of life…

***

… are myriad, and we’re blessed by the universe every day, especially if we were to do some kind of comparison study. I mean, the planet is in the throes of change and humans are historically opposed to that sort of thing, therefore chaos. Me too, I’m opposed to the direction this current change-up is taking because I’m selfish and I prefer that life simply continue in a positive vein. Is that too much to ask?

UNIVERSE: Far too much, sorry.

Mornings this week have been cool, perfect for walking, striding, strolling, shuffling, wandering, and wool-gathering. Yesterday I did the above for an hour, this morning for half that, improving my outlook immeasurably.

Another fav comfort is that of sitting down to write and watching the words flow onto the screen. It’s always fun to see if I have anything to say. Lately I have far too much and can’t really say ANY of it, so I’m missing that security blanket. The only way I know to write is flat out, no masks, no gloss, all truth if possible, and that’s a challenge now because veering off into truth turns the floor to lava. That leaves the weather report and bird watching, both of which are fine but less than cathartic to write about.

Reading is infinitely comforting to me, but it requires an attention span, so there are caveats. Plenty of reading does take place, though, and I have a bottomless well of gratitude for the people who opened those magical doors for me. Books literally roll back the curtain that separates us from the rest of the world, which has been a delightful ongoing gift for this farm girl.

A comfort that never fails… and a gift that keeps on giving, apparently forever… is Kim’s cooking. He’s never content to simply “make food.” He starts with ingredients we both like and hones the combining thereof into a dish that would have anyone’s palate craving more. [Except those who genuinely prefer bland, boiled ’til it can do no man harm, innocent, what IS this food. To each his own.] Good food made with love is like a nice long hug. Pure happiness.

I take great comfort in having a safe place to live, excellent medical people and facilities, clean water, abundant fresh food, people who care about me, and the freedom to live the life I’ve been given. Much of the planet has little to none of that, so a shoot-from-the-hip comparison study I just did shows we’re doing pretty freaking well under all the whining and fighting and gnashing of teeth.

I know this much is true… if we can get through whatever’s coming our way… survive it and come out the other side with something left… something of substance… WE’LL NEVER HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN. A cloak of naiveté didn’t suddenly drop on my head, I know SOMEONE will be faced with all of this again because the war between freedom and fascism never ends. But if we do this right, a few generations may get to age out before it all starts to crash again.

**

Let’s all keep a good thought as upheaval reigns: It’s entirely possible that climate change, disease, nuclear war, or some other factor will wipe us out first, and we can finally stop thinking about politics.

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Crash, slam, bang… I’m okay…

Good morning, my fellow round-the-bend players, how’s July shaping up for you? Okay, yeah, kinda what I thought. A lot going on, huh. There’s such a general upheaval in progress at all times now, it’s tricky to keep things sorted out. What’s important? What really matters? How can I be helpful instead of simply in the way? We have an incredible array of life or death issues in the air around us at once, none of which we hold any real sway over, and it’s fairly mindnumbing.

**

Having spent the past week on the knife-edge of mortality, in the throes of Martian Death Flu, I’m back better than ever and ready to tear a chunk in the space-time continuum. Today, Monday, in a surprise fierce attack, it’s List-Making Day, and we’re in great shape on that so far, Alex. The determination and sense of purpose fairly leap off the page and the ecclesiastical “we” can’t wait to get started. In fact, we’ve already ticked two things off the list, including one from yesterday just to double up on the endorphins.

In light of what we wake up to every morning, we need all the good endorphins we can get, mainlined into the system. There are strange dichotomies at work that we aren’t used to dealing with, and that turns normally-mundane things very weird. I’m not Catholic, so no dog in the fight, but for the first time in 600 years two popes are alive at the same time. That raises chain-of-command questions I’m not sure anyone really wants to address, so I’ll just leave it here for posterity.

By somewhat the same token, we’ve basically had two presidents simultaneously in the U.S. since 2021, and I do have a big woolly-bear of a dog in that fight. The legitimate president calls the shots and gets things done, the pretender shoots wildly in every direction and keeps his cul… um, base, on fire. His own family, including niece Mary, a Phd in clinical psychology, calls him batshit crazy, but a percentage of people in the country think he’s better than sex, which is worrisome on every level.

At the SAME EXACT TIME we have two hugely influential generations aging out… the Silent Generation and the Boomers. Every day my Facebook feed is sprinkled with stories and cool photos of people from my parents’ generation, all the celebrities I grew up knowing about. The vast majority are in their 90s and past 100, still doing that thing they do, which is generally to make life feel better to the rest of us. They’re leaving a very large void as they slip away one by one. I’ll wake up one of these mornings to find that Willie Nelson is no longer a citizen of this earth and I don’t know if I can bear it.

I remember people saying that as we age time speeds up. Yes and no. Twelve straight hours of daylight can seem like a week, but the weekends arrive and depart in double-time. The Silents and we Boomers are reaping the benefits of better nutrition as it came to us along the way, and it’s showing up not only in longevity but also productivity. A whole lot of us still have all our faculties, strange as that may sound coming from someone out of the 1960s and 70s (if you remember it, you weren’t there), and we’re still a force, but the world has no idea what to do with us. The law writers and hangers-on DO mos def want to get their hands on all the Social Security monies we’ve paid into the system our entire working lives, and let’s just say it, to do that they need us dead. I mean, how else? These and other realities keep me awake for whole seconds at night before I slip into my own “little death” and shuttle my brain over to dreamland. And hoo-boy, there have been some bizarre scenarios lately, what’s up with that.

While I’m rolling, imma say this too: Any way we slice it, however it turns out, the presidential election of 2024 is not simply that. Change is coming regardless, the question now is how much and how fast. Will this be the year America turns its broad backside on our WWII defenders and simply strolls into fascism like it’s a Sunday picnic, or will we wake up in time to take a shot at doing it right? America willingly sauntering into Christian Nationalism, hands behind our backs, sounds ridiculous. I hope we won’t do that, but I don’t draw up the plans. No one ever even asks me, despite dedicated years of opinionated observation. Someone who does know what the plan is, by the name of Kevin Roberts, should be checked out and taken seriously, though. He means it.

Please avail yourself of a copy of Project 2025 to see what the end of democratic rule and beginning of religious oppression looks like. There’s also a documentary called “Bad Faith.” But let’s focus on Project 2024 so we don’t have to worry about 2025!

**

One thing we’ve discovered is that Joseph Heller was a prophet:

“It was miraculous. It was almost no trick at all, he saw, to turn vice into virtue and slander into truth, impotence into abstinence, arrogance into humility, plunder into philanthropy, thievery into honor, blasphemy into wisdom, brutality into patriotism, and sadism into justice. Anybody could do it; it required no brains at all. It merely required no character.”

― Joseph Heller, Catch-22

**

A note of hope writ large today: England and France, both leaning seriously right for a worrisome time, managed to rein it in and lean the other way in their recent elections, both putting left-ish moderates in office. That’s two first-world nations bucking the global trend toward Christian Nationalism, let’s make it three and start a wildfire. And since I’m likely already at max friend-loss on the day, here’s this. She did everything she could to warn us about every bit of this.

**

It’s a lot. I haven’t written much lately because I can’t do it without getting into the truth. Turns out I can hoard my thoughts for only so long, however, so take ’em as they’re meant. And survive the long hot summer.

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Thinking out loud…

***

It’s been an ISH kind of spring so far. Rain-ish. Bluster-ish. Wind-ish. Gray-ish. Not a problem, just a challenge, especially in light of the general bluster coming at us from all quarters. No question, these are strange times, putting a layer of uncertainty under everything, to which the solution seems to be “Keep your head up and keep moving.”

That’s likely the essence of what our college and high school grads heard the past two weekends from speakers who had everyone’s best interests in mind, with one notable exception, a man who kicks balls for a living. This girl is just thankful she can see the TV from the kitchen, because FOOTBALL, man (see how equal-opportunity I am?). And the kitchen isn’t even my territory, it’s the domain of the guy who can REALLY COOK. OMG, we are SO out of compliance with current regs! If the Household Quality Control Department totes us away, please send banana bread containing keys, thx.

So… we’re in hiatus again, with some 28,000 university students mostly gone with the wind. Mass Street, jammed for two solid weekends, is now kinda quiet, kinda slow. This state of being lasts only a couple of months, though, before new life returns and it’s on again: students looking for housing, furniture at the curb all over town, baby freshmen getting their college legs, and a happy Mass Street. Football. Basketball. Bread and circuses, bring it on.

In the interim we’ve consciously broken a habit of several years running, that of NOT watching news on TV. The various shenanigans and happenings have heightened our need to know, so we tune in to trial coverage enough that it reminds me of watching the Watergate hearings on a little black & white TV with rabbit ears while my toddler played and napped.

That whole thing, Watergate, seems so innocent in retrospect. I wasn’t here for slavery (the official version) and I missed the Civil War and both World Wars. By the end of the Korean War I was six years old and just beginning to be cognizant of events outside my small sphere of existence. By the time Viet Nam became an acknowledged war I was becoming very aware of world events and how politics, in the end, shape everything. (See definition of “woke.”) Despite the ugliness and division of that era and my own personal fears, I never really expected to see the globe in tatters and headed for a bad end in my lifetime. Why, I don’t know, because here we are.

**

While I wasn’t old enough for WWII, I fully understand what it was about, and I know its sinister vibe is very much with us right now, this week, underscored by words from a disgraced ex-“president.” Words like “unified Reich” and “immigrants are poisoning the blood of America” and political opponents referred to as “vermin.” Germany doesn’t allow Nazi rhetoric, why are we tolerating it? The language and intent are such that every time I’ve tried to write about it (or anything else) my brain fogs over and tears clog my throat. As a country we’ve never quite been who we thought we were, but we were for sure better than this and the world is aghast to see our crumbling feet of clay because if the U.S. is a sham, how do they maintain hope for their own nations?

I’ll always be a Pollyanna, the girl who looks for the pony in the manure pile, always hopeful, forever optimistic, but I must say it takes a mighty amount more effort to maintain that mental state now.

Can’t we just all get along?

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Brain fog…

***

I’ve tried for days to write something, just to sort things a little and get a handle on the current prevailing vibe, but as soon as I sit down here my mind goes blank. It feels almost too big to deal with… the massive governmental changes lurking just over the horizon… the sense of walking on eggshells around friends and family… everything in a state of flux, resulting in endless limbo. Our skies have been gray with rain lately… but there’s also a general charcoaled-out mood to the rest of life as well. Beautiful friends who deserve only life’s sweetness are caught in the pain and darkness of loss and grief… and I’m helpless in the face of all that, just as I am in looking at the planet’s woes and knowing I can’t make any of it better. These are the days that try little white-haired women’s souls.

Closer to home, our Dove family is settled in and weathering the storms so far. We’re increasingly worried about Snoop, though… he’s tiny compared to Willie Nelson and he shivers constantly, even under his mama or daddy’s feathers. We hope he’ll eventually thrive, but it isn’t looking good for lil’ Snoop. Life is hard, dude, and nowhere is it as close to the bone as in pure raw nature.

Willie and Snoop Dove. Best bros. Hatched a day apart.

I scroll social media every day looking for “good news” stories and gentle humor because we all need it right now like a favorite teddy bear. When we least feel like smiling, we need it most. Humor and kindness make life livable because they add up to love.

So… I wrote all of the above yesterday. It’s another sunny morning, and Snoop Dove is clinging to life, but just barely. Willie Nelson stays close and usually has Snoop tucked against his side or under his tail feathers, but Snoop has gotten even tinier and he shivers nonstop. David and Darlene are making themselves scarce most of the time, probably letting reality follow its own course. Willie looks big enough to fly away, so little Snoop’s window is closing. Life on the planet is a fight every day, whether or not we can sense our own struggle. It’s overwhelming, even without the people who do cruel things ON PURPOSE.

**

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Poetry always, in all the ways…

***

This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.

–Walt Whitman

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It’s about time…

***

Word on the street growing up was that as you get older time accelerates, and it’s utterly true. Weekends now arrive every three days, and seasons are but a blip on the calendar. A short while ago I was whining about the cockamamie time change and now it’s settled into my DNA again. Life simply rolls on. Case in point, David and Darlene Dove, who are back for another round of babies, making our crusty old hearts glad.

**

The other unmistakable sign of full-on spring here is Farmers Market, whose busy Opening Day 2024 was last Saturday. Through our open door the sounds of conversation and laughter made it almost as good as putting on my sandals and going down there, which I didn’t do, although I have intentions, so check me on it.

**

As you might surmise, we’re back to balcony afternoons here, which are vital for health and wellbeing. I sit within a few inches of whichever parent is on the nest, they never move a feather in protest, and that feels sweet. So glad for the sunshine and the sounds of life. So glad for benevolent walking weather. So glad we stay continually educated by living until it’s done.

At this point, after 76 years of it, life in the U.S. has never felt more threatened, nor more tenuous to me, even through the debacle and angst that was Viet Nam. We’re on the precipice of losing everything democracy has afforded us, and that’s for real. And yet HOPE is still my first go-to. We can get through this. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Check me on it.

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Sound off…

***

My abject apologies, boys and girls, I failed to check back after the Big Dark, possibly because our eclipse experience consisted of a few moments of pale gray sky. Did e’erbody make it through, feet still on the ground, life continuing as usual? We are one amazing country, with never a shortage of drama. Who’d a’ thunk a strip of darkness across a fraction of the continent could arouse such inventive theories? Alas, it was simply the universe doing its thing again, some more, without any help from us. That’s good, ’cause we are, generally speaking, dumb as rocks.

Growing up, a farm girl with a big imagination, I’d often have a feeling come over me that said I’d see hard times before I die. Not just hard times but unique events we hadn’t witnessed before. In June of 2015 I realized the “voices” hadn’t lied to me, and we were in it. My heart hasn’t known true peace since because everything I’ve held dear in my life is under threat.

Growing up, I was part of a big family clan. Many of those people are gone, and the ones still here have sorted ourselves into factions according to our personal moral codes. The first casualty of that scenario is trust, followed immediately by communication. And without communication, relationships die.

Growing up is optional, you know, but a dash of maturity along with the years is a good thing. And as age and a seasoned mindset take center stage, we start to understand that throughout our lives, from womb to tomb, nothing is what we think it is at the time. In fact, it takes hindsight to evaluate most of what happens to us in life because we’re too caught up in trying to survive it.

It isn’t just family relationships that suffer, friendships take a big hit, too. Our move to Lawrence ten years ago turned out to be part of a small exodus from our former town. Unfortunately, the enterprise we were part of fell apart not far in, and when it went the friends went with it, something I hadn’t foreseen. Good thing I’m such an introvert.

Maybe the eclipse was a BFD after all… exposing the top of my head to it seems to have given me brain damage, not that anyone would know for sure.

I’ll be glad when the world laughs again, true happy laughter from a deep source. When we rediscover our sense of humor and start looking for the fun twist, the sudden right-hand turn, the laugh line instead of a barb… that’s when we’ll know things are getting better.

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The Art of the Dull

***

A heartwarming thing happened last week. While speed-romping through social media I caught sight of a page called Dull Women’s Club, halted in my tracks, read far enough to confirm what I was seeing, applied for membership, passed muster, and just like that… women and stories I identify with like a lost tribeswoman. Both misery and joy love company. These poor dull fascinating creatures are joy-filled rather than miserable and they showed up just in time for a needed reset on my part.

First off, it gives me a great sense of relief to put an accurate name to my persona. I’m a bona fide citizen of Dullsville and it’s time to own it. Signs of dullness include but are not limited to: A deep satisfaction in one’s home environment; quiet hours for uninterrupted reading and/or writing; enjoyment found in gazing at the same intersection every morning, the cars, the people, watching the neighborhood wake up; the joys of a walk to nowhere, at one’s own pace, absorbing the sights and sounds of spring, inhaling the fresh air. So dull. So life-giving.

Non-Dulls are the ones who leave the house at 9pm primed to party all night. For a lot of Dulls, on the other hand, 9pm turns out to be the perfect bed time. Non-Dulls thrive on activity and excitement. Dulls thrive on peace, simplicity, and not feeling rushed or pushed.

The so-called Dull Women I’m meeting in “the club” are anything BUT that. They do all the things, they simply do most of them on their own or with a select few people, and they take unmitigated joy in the little things. Same here. It takes a lot of energy to be FUN if you’re faking it. It feels more copacetic to stay quiet and enjoy the things I love, and let the Funs manage the social calendar.

Schematic for a Dull day:

  • Get up at 6am and drink coffee in silence until awake enough to communicate nicely. Can take four or more hours
  • Look at the internet. Yes, ALL of it
  • Do that well-known list of mundane tasks inherent in every 24hr time slot
  • Read things
  • Write things
  • Eat things, wonderful things, from the best kitchen in town
  • On a good day there will be napping involved (gasp!!)
  • Watch TV with the cook while we sip nightcaps
  • Give in to coma-mode no later than 10pm

See? Dull. Kimmers isn’t a Dull. He leaves the house several times a day, he knows people all over town, he has an idea a minute for keeping life NOT dull. In short, he’s a fun guy, so keep a good thought for him… he didn’t realize he was hooking up with a Dull since I was still in shock when he found me.

The past couple of years have been rife with learning opportunities, always a good thing whatever the process. The Dull Women’s Club is a microcosm of daily living, including the inevitable petty squabbles, and it’s affirming, freeing, and comforting to know “I’m not the only one.” That may be one of the greatest needs tied up with being human. “It isn’t just me, so maybe I’m doing okay.”

**

Whether you’re a Fun, a Dull, or a Hybrid, be your best you, you’re the nearest one to the subject, therefore the obvious choice.

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Wake-up call…

***

Where all my morning people at? And how you faring with the recent time change? Word on the street is that it could be one of the last times we do this… but I’ll buy that line when I see it in action since the wheels move at a glacial pace on most anything we care about.

Adjusting to change is a skill I don’t want to lose, especially since life is all ABOUT it and ya’ gotta keep up. That makes certain things unavoidable, at which point I tend to disappear for a while, a great luxury that is mine in this third trimester of living. Deep rest for mind and body adds to quality (and maybe length) of life. Worth a shot anyway.

And if one day is good, how can four or five not be BETTER? Why invite needless risk?!

**

The week ahead looks promising in terms of inner peace. Only two appointments scheduled so far and both on the same day, a twofer. I’m allowing myself one last day… today… for being utterly useless in the world. Tomorrow I’ll hit it again, with intention. Meanwhile I’ll watch the wind blow as spring and winter battle it out.

**

I made a very interesting discovery last week. Details soonest.

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Thoughts from a guest…

***

NO ONE EVER TOLD ME
(Of the Glory of Growing Older)

No one told me 

it would be like this— 

how growing older

is another passage

of discovery

and that aging is one

grand transformation,

and if some things become torn apart

lost along the way,

many other means show up 

to bring me closer 

to the center of my heart.

No one ever told me

if whatever wonder 

waits ahead

is in another realm

and outside of time.

But the amazement, I found,

is that the disconcerting things 

within the here and now 

that I stumble 

and trip my way 

through, also

lead me 

gracefully

home.

And no one told me 

that I would ever see

an earth so strong 

and fragile, or

a world so sad 

and beautiful.

And I surely

didn’t know 

I’d have

all this life 

yet in me

or such fire

inside my 

bones.

~Susan Frybort

**

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Mid-Winter Thaw

***

Thaw sounds a lot like thoughts and here we are. It’s been gray for days, nudging even Mrs. Pollyanna toward the ledge, but after all the snow, rain, sleet, fog, and plain ol’ gray skies, look what the weather gods are telling us this morning. Well, um, still quite a bit of gray, I see that now, but look at the temps! Spring Break, people! Keep a good thought.

**

Some of this morning’s thoughts have been about love/hate relationships, of which there have been many along the way, the concept of hate being a relative thing and used almost benignly here.

  • I love the quiet of winter. I don’t love the bone-chilling cold nor the relentless gray overhead. Even a dedicated recluse feels it after about so many days.
  • I’m loving the insights I’ve picked up over seven-plus decades of daily living. However, I abhor some of the fallout those years rained down upon myself and others. Learning the hard way is hard.
  • I love the freedom inherent in having made it past 75, with license to tell most anyone “You’re not the boss of me.” Or as a little girl in the restaurant booth behind me shouted “I don’t have to! You’re not my REAL daddy!” On the flip side, I’m genuinely not thrilled about how suddenly everything stops and there you are. Whatcha’ gonna do with yourself ’til you die, anyway?
  • I love having survived this long against all odds (yes, there are stories) and having had time to absorb and use a lot of what my grandparents imparted to me. But it’s fairly crushing to realize how little the basics of human community have altered for the better since the 1950s and 60s. Three-quarters of a century on, we’re still fighting all the same battles.
  • I love that at this age I care very little about the accoutrements. Give me some comfy leggings and a sweatshirt and life is golden. On the other hand, my lack of caring stems primarily from the fact that basically nobody (except long-suffering Kimmers) sees me, which is either not good or the healthiest thing possible, I haven’t figured it out yet. My spidey senses tell me the world is grateful.
  • I love life, all of it, the good, the bad, the ugly. I don’t love how brief it all is. On the other hand, maybe I love that it isn’t even LONGER. And now I’m out of hand(s), but what I truly love this morning is that I AM NOT IN CHARGE, not of my world or anyone else’s. What a relief. What a grace.

**

Great advice I stole from a friend today:

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Speaking of whack. I didn’t do this, but I would have.

**

Have a day you’ll feel good about as you’re falling asleep tonight…

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Pick a lane…

***

Kudos this morning to all the people who wake up ready for the day. And hugs to all who immediately feel seen because we don’t do that. I wasn’t a sleepyhead as a child, rarely even slept late during high school or college, was up before daylight most mornings as a farmer’s wife, packing lunches and/or getting ready to run some piece of heavy equipment for the next ten or twelve hours. I was awake and tracking from the second my feet hit the floor. But ya’ know, life changes things, becomes a pain (literally), and our bodies compensate by letting us off the hook here and there… let somebody else worry about (whatever) for a while. Sleep patterns change, leaving us less on point when wake time arrives, thus creating a sort of purgatory, a sometimes hellish way station where we try to simultaneously ignore the world around us and get ourselves ready to meet it in whatever ways fate has in store. I’m very spoiled… quiet is what allows me to be a functioning adult and I have a lot of it. I don’t book morning appointments unless there’s no option, and I usually have the luxury of a few hours’ grace before noon, alone, before I absolutely have to get it together. Mornings are some of my favorite writing times because writing it down is how I think things out and how I keep myself company. Thank you, my mama, for showing me the necessity for solitude and how to use it.

**

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Wow, check out all the coffee mugs! Must be something to it.

The word for 2024:

**

And hold onto this thought, too…

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Too soon for ratings?

***

Good morning, friends. Less than a week in, how is 2024 spooling out for you? Lots of gray days here, a little snow in the air, and next Friday starts a run of cold (to us) days and nights. Daytime highs in the low 20s, with single-digit nights. It’s winter, so…

After reading a Facebook post ABOUT Facebook by a friend this morning, I’ve been sitting here thinking about what the platform means in my own life. My son made me aware of its existence shortly after his dad, my first husband, died, and against all odds (in my mind) it turned out to be my kinda place. Took me a while to navigate it to my benefit, but I was ready because until that point in my life I’d been laser-focused on pleasing the people around me, a tricky habit since it’s different strokes for different folks and somebody always gets shortchanged.

After the first couple of years on The Fakest of Books, the novelty of connecting with everyone I’d ever known was wearing thin, disagreements were becoming a regular thing, and I lacked the interest and energy for dealing with it. I thought about dropping out (which has happened a couple of times since) but decided to take a shot at making it what I thought it would be in the first place. I filtered my friends list big-time (you’re welcome, those who got a pink slip, I saved you the trouble), unfollowed, unfriended, blocked, cut sites I didn’t want to follow, locked things down like a ship in a storm and plowed ahead. The atmosphere changed immediately. It’s time for another big cull because now Facebook puts “things of interest” in our feeds and if we “like” them we’ve thereby adopted them. Cagey.

So, to do what I’m known for, I’ll make a long story longer…

We have to remember at the outset that nothing’s perfect. No environment will 100% nurture and support us, we’re imperfect, the friends we make are imperfect, life is not only imperfect but entirely unpredictable.

It therefore follows that if we were to discover a magically-perfect environment, we would automatically render it imperfect by our presence, so forget that. The only way to fly: try before you “buy,” check the temperature of a few places, set boundaries, and do what works for you. With Twitter now a “maybe” day-to-day I’ve checked into a handful of similar platforms, but the incentive to start over just isn’t there. That’s fine, the whole phenomenon, as we know it, may be reaching its expiration date anyway. Meanwhile…

“What Facebook Means to Me”

  • It gave me a voice in my 50s when I most needed one
  • It helped me build a network of support and friendship at a critical time
  • It opened doors and windows for me, insight into a rapidly-shifting political landscape and avenues for open discussion about all of it
  • It renews my appreciation every day for the people I meet there, the ones I read about, the creativity of humans, and often the kindness, which means the most
  • It lets me share this blog, which is far less expensive than a lifetime of therapy
  • Speaking of therapy, sometimes oversharing is underrated if someone is helped thereby

I’m suddenly uber-conscious that I’m closer to 80 than 70 at this point, and despite all my naive vows before the age of 50, I’m not loving the process. I like the age part and I hope to add a bunch more years to that, but the price of getting there is highly disrespectful and insulting. Facebook, because it’s what’s there, helps mitigate a few aspects of the aging process, including isolation, the blue lonesomes, the need to keep sharpening your wits by engaging with interesting people, the desire to see the world and its wonders because you know you ain’t gettin’ there in this lifetime. The Book of Fakes does nothing for wrinkles except advertise incessantly to us (how on earth do they KNOW??), but the people who remain on my friends list make the cut for being REAL, and they make life a better place to be than it would be without them.

THE END

***

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Rainy day stuff…

***

We’re a little socked in this morning, with our parking lot lights still on at 10am. It likely rained through the night, possibly a snow mix, I didn’t wake up to check. Winter is inexorably coming to us, taking its time, dawdling, teasing, scattering rain, snow, ice, and cold temps along the way as early warnings. That’s okay, I’m more than ready for my cozy warm house and many snow days that “strand” me here on my little island.

I read an article this morning about journaling and how beneficial it is as we age, leaving me thankful that I’ve kept up a journaling habit for most of my life while it gradually became an industrial-strength necessity. I’m not sure how I feel sometimes until I see my own words, and then I watch in a sort of wonder as the knots unravel and the angst subsides for whole long moments. It’s a very healing exercise, partly because I can spot a phony at 30 paces and I’ve been onto THIS ol’ girl for a while now, making it increasingly hard for me to lie to her. It always makes me happy when someone tells me they keep a journal, however sporadic they may be about it. It’s all about self care.

**

You get a lot of melancholy from me, so I owe it to you, here at the end of 2023, to let you know that despite outward circumstances life feels better than it has in some time. It’s been a productive year; we’ve made purposeful improvements to our surroundings, our routines, and our attitudes; we’ve dared to look ahead and consider where we might want to be this time next year. As the scary dip into fascist waters continues, we can’t ignore what’s taking place outside our doors… but neither can it be allowed to determine the color of our days. We aren’t old yet, but we’re starting to see the detritus at the outer suburbs as we holla “Wait! It isn’t time yet, I’m not ready, I’ve only been here a little while and I HAVE SO MUCH LEFT TO DO!” Not a desperate plea, simply a statement of fact, laced with excitement and incentive. A knowing that it’s all Now or Never at this point, let’s get to it. My grandmothers, both amazing women, lived past 95 with minds intact along with their inner youthfulness, so by that standard I’m still in my prime.

**

Tonight the two most recent teams to win the National College Basketball Championship will play each other in Allen Fieldhouse, mere blocks from our fireplace and comfy chairs. The #4 Connecticut Huskies and the #5 Kansas Jayhawks will face off while this poetic little soul celebrates the drama of it all. No matter what the word on the street is, life’s okay. Let’s all try to hang in long enough to see how the story ends. 💙

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