It’s another HumpDay, boys and girls, and we all know what that means: GET OVER IT ASAP! In truth, it feels like a very laid-back pre-Thanksgiving Wednesday, no big deal, which is the way I like my holidays. We’re creatures of habit in this house, rather than tradition, and a nice habit to cultivate is good food with great people, so tomorrow will follow… um… tradition. Rita will be here and each of the three of us chose a favorite dish to make, plus a few other goodies. It’ll be fire and we’ll congratulate ourselves on pulling off yet another cozy half-assed national holiday on our own template. Meanwhile, our middle sister should be on her way home today after major surgery, which is another tradition we dislike but adhere to in this family on a far too regular basis. And John will be working the holiday, as is his usual tradition.
This morning has sounded industrious and preparatory outside my doors. The yard crew arrived early to finish putting all the landscaping to bed for the season, at decibel level. There were fire trucks running north and south while city police cars screamed east and west, in response to what, I won’t even contemplate. The #lfk street sweepers have been out in force. Cars and people are roaming to and fro on errands unique to them. Kim’s home from PickleBall and is in the kitchen chopping a new load of fresh pepper and onion mix, his not-so-secret ingredient in most everything but desserts. The sun’s shining. The wind isn’t blowing. The day stands ready, holding out possibility. Might have to check it out… after one more cup of coffee.
A happy and grateful observance to all who celebrate. It’s never a bad time to stop and give thanks.
The KIMN8R and I are gradually returning to routine after having son John here long enough to absorb him a little. He spotted a 4-day stretch in his schedule with no work and no meetings, grabbed a flight to KC, and a good time was enjoyed by all, including Auntie Rita. Relative to our status age-wise, the three of us plied him with medical questions and got back better than we asked for, as it’s information you can take to the (blood)bank. In nearly twenty years as an oncology RN and hospice nurse he’s sort of seen it all, and possesses an innate depth of spirit that makes me listen carefully to his words, which are generally very sparing. He also gives amazing hugs.
So. A happy-surprise weekend that included KU home games in both football and basketball, much wonderful food from Kim’s kitchen, best company, and excellent conversation. John and I share a love of peace, quiet, independence, sarcasm, music, good food, and sensory deprivation, not necessarily in that order, and he’s a very soothing person to spend time with, so I’m feeling renewed and energized for a deep dive into winter hibernation. Sounds like an oxymoron… but isn’t. Ready for my cave and whatever sources of inspiration it might contain.
Best definition of the word VACATION: “A period during which activity is stopped for a time.” So we did it right and it was the truest vacation I’ve taken since I was a kid, when family trips mostly meant camping (with parental units doing all the work) and sunbathing. This time, in response to an invitation, we loaded up our little red wagon, bizzling through parts of four states in search of ultimate relaxation, and our destination did not disappoint. Blazing across the great state of South Dakota at a legal 80mph+ was exhilarating and the interstate is straight as a pin except for one remarkable curve somewhere close to Rapid City, so Kim was happily in aircraft-pilot mode through every mile.
We arrived at the cabin in the meadow on Sunday. Kim turned on the TV for Sunday Night Football and that was the only time it was lit up for the duration. See that front porch up there? We could have romped off to Mount Rushmore… or Deadwood… or Sturgis… or stunning caverns… or any number of other worthy activities on offer. What we did for several days and evenings, as was our intention, was sit on that lovely porch, with its perfectly-aged screen door and softly-creaking floor, and look with our eyes, and feel with our molecules. The air and water and atmosphere are pristine beyond imagination… and it was more than gratifying to experience a spot humans haven’t drained of its essence.
Kim walked most of the ranch’s 30-acre property line and followed several of the trails that cross the terrain. He let that sweet Taylor guitar ring out across the meadow… and even wrote a song in his free time. He also cooked all our meals in the cabin’s perfect little kitchen. I read a little… wrote a little… napped a little… and far too soon it was time to pack up and point the car east. Fortunately, home is never the wrong place to be, and we were welcomed back this morning with a sky-blackening, crashing, booming thunderstorm, accompanied by pouring rain. Our place of choice still loves us, and likewise.
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Memories for a lifetime:
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Dasher cat keeping an eye on things.
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Manna and Midnight
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Until we meet again…
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So home we drove, past hundreds of miles of corn, soy beans, sunflowers, sorghum, and other crops, some ready for the harvesters, much that looks like it will do well to beat the first snow, all of it keeping us conscious of the basics: We’re a nation of highly-independent souls with a general yen to do right by each other. The extremes are out there but they comprise less of the sum total than we might think without benefit of direct exposure. On a cross-country road trip you’ll see it all, and we did. At a mega truck-stop somewhere along the way we were treated to a large white van blocking traffic and plastered from stem to stern with explicit advice for Joe Biden along with abject worship of the former guy. On the flip side, that was the only in-your-face evidence of division in over 1500 miles of travel, and I like those odds.
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Our hosts for this much-needed idyll were Mark & Mary (Wipf) Zimmerman, who have been South Dakota Arts Council artists in residence for 25 years and whose art graces every part of their beautiful homestead ranch.
I’ve been off on sabbatical again, is everybody still okay? This is the summer of figuring out WhatTheHell, and it’s going swimmingly, starting with the weather. Weirdly for August in Kansas, nearly every morning starts with a hint of sunshine before morphing into yet another grayish overcast day with all the heat held firmly in place. This week the forecast says we’ll get a break, with temps in the lower 80s… but also with the humidity in those same numbers if not higher. It’s summertime, it’s da vey dey do, and I’m merely adding (unnecessary) commentary.
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Life is, in fact, quite good of course. We have family in town visiting, and more to arrive today, people we haven’t seen in ten years, so that’s a very sweet thing. The food and drink at this establishment (Kim’s kitchen) continues in its customary stellar fashion; we’re maintaining a facsimile of robust health; and we sleep safe every night. I communicate with someone who lives in Ukraine, and I know that for her, her husband, and their country the idea of sleeping in comfort and security is the stuff of dreams now. It’s impossible to put down in words sometimes how precious and unbelievable life is, because it’s so very relative. What it looks like to each of us depends on where we find ourselves on the planet, which patch of earth is “ours,” so we build the dream according to what seems almost possible and then reach beyond it.
As dreams go, I saved this one for Kim. It looks like something he would actually build and enjoy living in, provided there were drop-down window coverings for coziness.
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If there’s something that would make today better for you, DO THAT. There’s no rule that we get only one of those a week, or even just one a day, so don’t think you’re being selfish by claiming the good stuff. It’s nice when you can pay it forward, though.
Mornings are hard. Crying early and often seems to be my default mode and I don’t even fight it anymore. Saw a headline this morning, a mother politely begging her disabled daughter’s classmates to please come by the house and wish her a Happy Birthday, no gift necessary, just please say hi. Had to duck out and skip the actual story because I’m a weakling. WTF?? Why are humans, those most exalted of creatures, so incurably cold and cruel? We have the most to give but we grasp all of it like a monkey with his fist in a small-mouth jar.
There’s a man in his 40s or young 50s who’s worked in our building since before we moved here ten years ago. Knows everything about the place, where all the ghosts are, and more importantly, all the shut-offs. And keys. And what not to do. He has a huge heart and he shows up for whatever anyone needs. He’s been walking on a bad knee for a long time and it’s been bone on bone for at least a year. He was scheduled for replacement surgery next month, but in the meantime his insurance has been canceled so that’s off. Our parking lot consists of either resident slots, bank slots, or paid city parking, and this employee has apparently never had a parking permit in all the years he’s worked here, so he has to park wherever he can find a space on the surrounding streets and then hike back there every two hours to move to a different spot, on a knee that’s stealing his joy every second. When Kim found out what’s been going on we both raised a ruckus with the board president who told us she’d talked with a few of the loft owners about getting this man a pass, and they said they’d need to “think about it,” at which time I simply lost it.
Our building is owner-occupied and although we’re not on their level we live among people with real resources who do pretty much as they please. Many are here only part time, as they travel the world on a regular basis while the man in question monitors and safeguards their spaces and belongings. Whatever they need, they buy. Whatever they want to do, they do. Here’s a man making life easier for them every single day, and they can’t find it in their hearts to okay a parking spot close to the building, even knowing he’s in pain every second? Why is that? I mean, one must ask. Is it because he isn’t part of their social strata? Because his truck isn’t new and snazzy? He’s smart, he’s kind, he’s helpful, he somehow works a second job, he’s married with children. He has also helped more than one older person here in the building and around town stay independent by doing the small vital things they could no longer do for themselves. He works soup kitchens in town, which keeps him on that knee. He’s a good man. He’s also Black. Someone please tell me that has no bearing on whether or not he deserves to park next to his place of work.
We have two vehicles, thus two permits. Both cars are nearly always in the parking garage, so we have little use for outdoor passes. Kim gave our friend one of them, end of story, fight us both you crazy messed-up people. This guy is quiet and totally unassuming… “You don’t see me, I’m not really here.” He was never going to push the issue on his own. Sometimes you have to force somebody’s hand.
I’m a recluse for good reason… people can be unspeakably awful, and that’s getting worse not better. I know, I know, they’re unspeakably beautiful as well. Let’s have a whole lot more of that, please, and I might buy in.
It’s dark and rainy this morning, adding to a sense of impending doom, says failed Pollyanna. When people are selfish and unthinking it makes me long to quit the world, just wander off somewhere and make myself comfy in a nice dry cave while I watch it all go by. But I’d miss Kim’s cooking so I’d be home before dark.
Whatever you do with your Sunday, first do no harm, okay? If you’re on your way to church, ask yourself straight up if everybody I know would be welcome in your midst. I have trans friends, lesbian friends, oodles of gay friends, and more Black friends than have likely blessed one of your services, ever, depending on who I’m talking to. I also know people your congregation might be disinclined to even have coffee with, let alone offer the right hand of fellowship. Is your church big on tithes and offerings for people they’ll never have to see? That hardly counts in the overall picture when someone limping right next to you needs a tiny bit of help. Does your church model its actions and outreach on what we’ve been told was the life of Jesus? If not, save time and futility by going straight to Sunday dinner, do not pass GO, do not collect $200, because none of it holds water. As in all of life, we hear what you say, but we see what you do.
This apropos meme just fell into my hands:
Be careful who you hate, it might be someone you love.
So far it’s been a slow month in “paradise” and that’s lovely. The morning temperature was perfect during my stroll and nothing hurt, so I’m two for three at this point.
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I remember 40. It was just a hint of how shockingly life and death can deal with us. No worries, walk it off.
And so did you.Celebrate!
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June is PRIDE Month, and with friends and family on every part of the LGBTQ spectrum I’d be an unfeeling idiot not to state my support.
Every LGBTQ human feels all of this and more, every day of their lives.
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This will feel like a 90° tire-screeching left-hand turn but it’s relevant, so keep your arms inside the vehicle at all times and do not attempt to disembark until the ride comes to a complete stop:
Abject confession, I have been this person.
DISCLAIMER: I’ve never made friends easily and can think of only a few people with whom I’ve felt a true bond, but I attract the needy like flies to honey. Something about that equation makes people want to challenge me in order to back me down on what my personal moral code looks like, and I’ve had to not only unfriend them but block them, because they don’t give up. This is relevant because longtime acquaintances I once thought of as friends have felt compelled to convince me of the errors in my thinking, trying to wear me to a nubbin on the “gay” conversation, among others. Let me just say for the record that persistence does not equal veracity and I won’t be tuning in to the gaslighting and shaming. Ever.
It’s past 9am and the streetlights are still on, best kind of morning . Rainy, drippy, dark, leading one to think the day holds nothing pressing so why hurry? The coffee too is dark and deep, breakfast was glad-making for the tummy, and Kim’s at home, ensconced at his computer, having declined to make the trek out west for PickleBall this morning. We have a couple of projects that might keep us occupied today every bit as much as we want to be, the kitchen’s fully supplied with foodstuffs, and there’s no chance of flooding between here and the liquor store, so all is well. Oldies like their evening aperitif. The Royals, who’ve had a good run lately, play again after lunch today unless it’s raining in Kansas City at game time, so that sounds cozy. And in case you thought I meant THOSE royals… nah, can’t get into it, it’s all kinda silly. “My blood’s bluer and far more inbred than yours, so I win.”
By choice I’ve had lots of at-home hours over the past couple of weeks, which sometimes affords too much time for overthinking, which leads to remembering stuff, which leads to all the feelings. Society continues to be ridiculous and the shenanigans can get to a person, know what I’m saying? A lot of people I once counted on to be the adults in the room can’t get a handle on this era for what it is, which is incredibly depressing and distressing, so my aim every day is to stay juuuuust tuned out enough to avoid the sturm und drang of the labyrinth itself. Some days are more successful than others.
Have you thought about this… the thrill of aging almost inevitably means our core support group grows ever smaller through natural attrition of every sort, which leaves us more and more out here on our own. It’s a shocking realization at first, until you understand that the total independence and personal freedom you’ve always craved is HERE now, so do something smart with all that. Do what you want, say what you mean, what can happen, they take away your birthday? The older of my two grandmas, my dad’s mom, kept up a correspondence with cousins her age, eight 2nd-generation German-American women who maintained a “Round Robin” notebook filled with news, updates, and photos, sending it around until everyone had written in it, at which time they started it around again. She read pieces of it to me over the years until finally it was just her and one cousin left to communicate… and then just Grandma, who at past 95 was the last to leave. She told me she was never so lonely as during those years when there was no one left who remembered who she’d been before she was old.
My mom, on the other side of my genealogical chart, was the third-eldest of nine siblings, so I grew up as part of that big family, taking for granted it would always be there. Oh, my sweet summer child, your naiveté is endlessly touching. The world doesn’t stay static for a second and neither do people. Notwithstanding things like bloodlines, DNA, identification with a tribe, and backup in a fight, families don’t remain static either. They grow, they morph, they move, they move on. I’m now the second-oldest family member of my generation, and from this vantage point the terrain looks entirely different than I might have imagined when I was one of the littles. I look around at who’s still here and see an assortment of people I don’t know, never actually DID know except in the context of being related to each other and thus somehow extra-connected to each other’s well-being. Now we’re mostly strangers, which was always going to be the outcome if we ever started being ourselves with each other. And now we’ve done what we unconsciously do out there in the general population… we’ve mostly reduced each other to our politics and drawn lines of separation, a phenomenon maybe none of us intended. We always were a diverse bunch, but that knowledge was obscured by loyalties and what we knew at the time as love. Since we grew up and away as a family entity, reality has reigned more and more supreme, and that’s no doubt a good thing since sentimental delusions take us precisely no where good.
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Life is simultaneously simpler and more complicated than we want it to be. A simple affirmation, or exhalation if you will, might go something like this:
I’m a breathing being on planet Earth, with the power to be kind and almost no other,
with especially no power to fix anyone but me.
My grandmas both lived past 95, a space of twenty years from where I am now. What will I do with those two decades should they be allotted to me?
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A sweet thing happened this morning… I saw David returning to the nest so I went out onto the balcony. Darleen must have just left, as he was still standing on the railing, so I spoke to him in soft tones and he didn’t move a feather while I peered over his shoulder. I’m happy to tell you that there are indeed TWO eggs in their barebones little nest and all seems well, even as they take turns hunkering under the ferns while the rain falls. These Dove people are cool.
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…
Finneas is a brother to Billie Eilish and has worked with her from the start of her career.
How do you know If you’ve done everything right? Is it the love you have at hand Or the cash you kiss at night?
How do you know If it was worth it in the end? Did every second really count Or were there some you shouldn’t spend On anything but anyone you love? Was this the life that you were dreaming of? A movie night, a yellow light You’re slowing down and days are adding up
So don’t waste the time you have waiting for time to pass It’s only a lifetime That’s only a while It’s not worth the anger you felt as a child Don’t waste the time you have waiting for time to pass It’s only a lifetime That’s not long enough You’re not gonna like it without any love So don’t waste it
I’m unimpressed By the people preaching pain For the sake of some small gain In the sake of someone’s name
I’m unprepared For my loved ones to be gone Call ’em far too often now Worry way too much about mom
Don’t waste the time you have waiting for time to pass It’s only a lifetime That’s only a while It’s not worth the anger you felt as a child Don’t waste the time you have waiting for time to pass It’s only a lifetime That’s not long enough You’re not gonna like it without any love So don’t waste it
It’s family and friends, and that’s the truth The fountain doesn’t give you back your youth It’s staying up too late at night and laughing under kitchen lights So hard you start to cry
Don’t waste the time you have waiting for time to pass It’s only a lifetime That’s not long enough You’re not gonna like it without any love So don’t waste it
One down in the string of winter holidays if we don’t count Halloween in our race to 2023. Turkey Day was nice. We skipped the turkey and went straight for our personal list of comfort foods… Kimmers and me, Rita and a friend. Easy to make, satisfying to eat. We raised a solemn toast to all those displaced from their homes and traditional lands so that we might enjoy the bounty of life, and thanked whatsoever gods there may be for the gifts.
Our unseen and much-maligned fellow travelers before us paved the way for the societies and civilizations we now take for granted… while they became invisible as a people. We did that. We disappeared them. I’ve been thinking since Thursday about what it means to be invisible, undetected by the world’s radar. My body has almost recovered from my fall in October, but my spirit will never forget the cool detached appraisal from that impeccable young woman as I lay there like a bug on the sidewalk. She made eye contact but never saw me, and went on her way without a second thought. That’s invisibility… when someone or something simply does not exist you’re under no obligation to give weight to it. I’ve tried several times over the past few days to wrestle a feeling into words, but I couldn’t get a handle on it until a story this morning spelled it out: A thing unseen never has to be dealt with.
So true. In a flurry of pre-New Year housekeeping a while back, I sat here and wrote down some honest thoughts, and then before I could change my mind I hit SEND. I did hear back from the person it was sent to, but nothing I said was addressed beyond “hello.” That’s invisibility and it feels like being canceled. I’m getting used to it out there in public… my white hair and wrinkles announce my lack of viability and visibility everywhere I go… but I’m not so familiar with it yet from people I once knew. Such a strange disorienting sensation, and one I apparently need to get used to sooner rather than later because it’s happening with startling regularity at this point. When you say or write something, attempting to keep life honest and real, and not even an echo comes back… do you still exist?
It’s the dilemma of every older person I’ve ever known. Am I still here? Does anybody see me? Does anyone give a flying fvck? Honest answer: No, the world does not care, get over it and fix it yourself. My inner voice, which becomes louder year by year, has been telling me to go where I’m celebrated, rather than stay where I’m merely tolerated, and I’m sure that’s a solution to keep in mind. I only know that if it costs you your peace, it’s too expensive.
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The world is so full of anger it keeps us off balance. I talked with someone yesterday who’s running primarily on anger fumes right now, and for good reason. We both know we can’t stay this rage-engaged forever, but sometimes it gets shit done from the inside out, where it matters most.
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We are saved by those who tell us the truth… those who come to us bearing gifts of love and grace and an easy transparency that says “I got you.”
Thankful. So thankful.
A special thank you to my husband as we embark on another cold winter, with its lack of sunlight and sometimes unfriendly weather. I’m forever grateful he knew what to do with the grubby old cardboard box full of broken pieces I brought him.
Have you ever taken note of the way, no matter how far out in the ether we get, life is standing by to provide gentle instruction or yank us into line? It’s uncanny how often I encounter that situation or bring it on myself without even trying.
And have you ever wondered what my blog title means? Twenty years ago I found myself playing for time, and the process has never stopped. Still playing, still breathing, always hoping for more time. And just as there are all kinds of ways to play… music, games, roles, gaslighting… there are myriad more ways to age. I consciously chose long ago to walk willingly into my last set of years and enjoy them in all the ways available, but I have companions who sometimes muck things up for me simply by doing what they do. Old, old companions like melancholy, self-doubt, and depression, whose lies complicate absolutely everything.
For instance, I preach that life is all about change. And then when something in my life changes, I tend to HATE it.
SPOILER: That can be a sign of encroaching crustiness. I’m discovering a list of other indicators, how’s your caffeine supply this morning? Fortified enough to visit my psyche for a minute?
Okay, so…
This blog spot has become more and more about the aging (maturing?) process, which is a no-brainer since I’m now considered an Old.
If you are not yet so designated, time will sooner or later provide you with the following knowledge, and you can save a little angst and hassle by preparing ahead of time:
We forget things. Not like appointments or where we left our car keys, but who we really are and how life works, by which I mean it isn’t about us. Very few people remember that we exist at this point… which is quite freeing now that I mention it.
The more years we live, the more personal loss we accumulate.
The more personal loss we accumulate, the greater our fear of abandonment.
The greater our fear of any kind, the more timid the soul.
Past the age of viability in the eyes of the greater world, everything becomes a test of one kind or another.
The knowledge that we’re failing some of those tests should not be considered a signal to sit down and give up.
We do well-meaning things that manage to accomplish the opposite of what we intended.
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I somehow turned into my grandma during these years of crisis and chaos… but did I DIE? Not yet, so there’s still time to learn a couple of things:
Lack of self-respect is self-abuse.
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No matter what it feels like…
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This thought helps restore me to myself this morning… and you can trust it too…
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Whatever gives your life just a little bit more peace… do that.
Up at 5am on a Saturday because it was time to crawl out, I guess. My brain leads a life that diverges from what shows, and it loves to think in quiet darkness while morning caffeine gradually permeates my person. Kim’s out trekking Mass Street from end to end, so it’s totally silent all up in here and conducive to slipping down rabbit trails.
Fall is memory season, with everything drawn in vivid color so as to really stick good, and events of a lifetime come at us in a rush. We’re simultaneously children, hormonal teens, the exhausted sandwich generation, and plain freaking old, so it all hits different and too fast for a healthy sifting. I end up feeling blindsided every year by the onslaught of memory and emotion, stretching back to my birth into a family clan. If I get to live as long as my grandmothers there’s a book I have to write… after everyone I’ve ever known is… you know, gone… but as the 3rd-oldest grandchild in the dynasty, I thought all of it was forever, and that the love, trust, and sense of belonging would always be there. That’s the child talking… the adult part of me knows nothing is forever. But oh, how we wanted it to be.
Relative to this morning’s musings, I think all death, human and otherwise, should take place in the fall. Winter’s too miserable, summer’s too hot, spring breaks your heart forever… so fall it is, everything finished and neatly tied up before the snow flies.
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I’d never really put this thought into words before, but when I read it, I knew that I knew, and that it was okay.
Therefore…
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We all do this, thereby hurting each other in lasting ways.
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There’s no way on this green earth to meet anyone’s standards but your own, so be kind, be goodhearted, and live your life.
Pollyanna says…
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We haven’t seen chaos like this in our lifetimes, making it hard to accept that it’s our turn in the barrel for a while. But history shows that this doesn’t last forever, so we can’t forget how to really live. Happy fall, happy sifting…
It’s a magical world outside my windows this morning… leftover raindrops, kaleidoscope leaves, dogs happily taking their people for walks, dark blue skies carrying rain on down the line…
Fall seems like the ultimate dichotomy, with everything bursting out in glory just before the death and darkness of winter. But we can’t be fooled or depressed, the seeds of spring lie in silence and their time to shine always comes ’round again.
The autumn season is full of melancholy, even without the memories we attach to it, and then hot on its heels come The Holidays, DUN-da-da-DUN. For an oft-depressed introvert, Thanksgiving through New Year’s Day looms like a darkened maze to be navigated, but here I still stand, living and breathing, so it’s been survived before and will be again.
All of life, now, requires a certain level of preparedness, a considered mindset going in. The guardrails have mostly been obliterated from human interaction, leaving all of us to feel our way through the minefields and try to come out whole on the other side. The old traditional celebrations bring every feeling to the surface, all of it requiring patience and wisdom to deal with as it comes at us… and we aren’t always successful in that. And let’s face it, we weren’t that great at it in what we thought were the best of times, so a bit of self-kindness is called for since all the dynamics have changed.
The above is for my fellow introspective “feelers,” a miserable condition we share because we can’t help it. The Holidays will no doubt be as sweet and beautiful this year as always, and if any of it brings us angst we simply won’t tell anyone, no worries, The End.
Stopping in to say hi after a quintessential fall weekend which included pep rallies and parties, Jayhawk Football Homecoming, a snazzy flyover from the Air Force base, a big car show downtown, a PickleBall tournament on new courts, and perfect weather. The KU community is reveling in the fun of having an amazing football team for the first time in about fifteen years… brings new life to the town and gives the basketball team a little breathing space.
For me it was a reflective couple of days, enjoying the beautiful weather from the balcony, absorbing the vibes from a quiet remove, glad to know it’s all going on out there without my help. And yes, I’m still lazy no matter how good I feel. Sometimes when it’s all noise and action out there but quiet and peaceful in here, reflection leads to realization… and one such awakening has been that no matter how much we talk, generally only a small portion gets translated into comprehension. So… maybe… fewer words in every direction for maximum impact? Talking is a chore anyway, the older I get, I can do with less of it!
Bring it, I’ll deal.
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Ourselves. We have the power to change US. That implies great freedom… what if I were responsible for ONLY ME in terms of choice and control? It’s called reality and I’m loving it more and more. This isn’t my world, I just live in it, giving it my best shot on my way through, end of story.
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Because you’re faithful and patient, I save things to share with you. Enjoy…
Focal seizures make me have to sit or lie down wherever I am, so I relate… and animals are simply the best.
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I live in my own head so much it makes me questionable friend material… but I keep trying. Friends, family, other connections…
I fully relate to this.
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And on a related note, if you live anywhere near my world…
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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.
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