Thursday, November 5, 2015

Garden Plots

Gardens have flowers and vegetables and things that we want to thrive there.  And gardens have weeds of unknown origin that meander with strategy to complicate their extrication and enhance their strength.  Weeds thrive despite our aversion to them and our efforts to eradicate them.  Often, it seems the weeds are more robust, showing up early and easily, while the good things -- the blossoms we desire, the fruit we'll tend and harvest -- make us struggle and wait for their bounty.

I read a story recently about a man in the 1940/s who created a scenario ( a prank, really) that exposed embedded racism and displayed its error and hypocrisy.  Reports of his "experiment" brought kudos from newspaper editors, those fighting segregation, and those who suffered from it.  And one fellow said to this man, "It will take one hundred years to see the good you've done, but you'll see the evil real soon."  So true: along with the congratulations came repercussions of a sinister sort.

Abraham was given a promise that he would be a great blessing to this world, and God would greatly increase his numbers. (Genesis.  You can begin at chapter 12, but take a good look at chapter 17, 1-8). This promise would be fulfilled in the future: there would be generations, and nations, that came from this man's covenant with God.  But, Abraham wasn't gonna see it. He was going to be struggling, and moving like a vagabond without a country, and facing enemies and spiteful women and dishonest men, and die before his descendants outnumbered the stars in the sky. It would take decades, even centuries, before the good in that promise was fulfilled...but the evil came about real soon.

Get a good thing started, and its likely you'll face opposition.  Those who are opposing you might think they've got the good idea, and you are the rotten apple ready to spoil their pie! Suggest a change (for the better, in your estimation), and those happy with the status quo will take offense.  Your idea may eventually make things better, but it may take one hundred years.  And there you are, struggling with the weeds that choke the blossoms.

Though cliche, it is true that people want to be a part of something bigger than themselves. Joining the big thing after its been successful is an easy choice: initiating that "thing" when it is still small takes courage, conviction, and patience.  Oh, and really good friends, who keep their hope in you despite your faltering steps and occasional whining.

Keep breathing, keep moving, keep on.  The "evil" -- the nay-sayers and joy-takers -- may show up real soon, but if there's good to be had, it's worth the effort.

Just be sure your motives are sincere...more on that later.

Tuesday, October 6, 2015

Timing is Everything

My parents belonged to a Bridge club when I was growing up.   (SIDEBAR: I will continue to capitalize the word Bridge so you don't think my parents were part of some structural engineering society or an Erector Set fan club.)  Once a month, six couples would dress much nicer than office casual (men in sport coats, women in more-than-work but less-than-gala wear) and meet to play the card game "Bridge."

I know absolutely NOTHING about Bridge, except that Omar Sharif was apparently a competitive pro at it and there's a heckuva candy mix named for the game. 

Anyway, my father became renown for telling great jokes, usually ones that strung out like a full skein of yarn.  He had told my mom a great story and she said "Oh, you just have to tell it at the next bridge club!"  The next card night came around, hosted somewhere other than our house.  Everyone had fun, some delicious new dessert recipe from Better Homes and Gardens magazine was enjoyed, the large-urn coffee pot was drained, and everyone left for home.  On the way, my mother looked incredulously at my father and said "You didn't tell your joke!  Why not?"

His answer? "The timing wasn't right."

A great joke that would have drawn attention and gotten everyone laughing.  Who wouldn't want that? But Dad had the sensitivity to recognize that particular gathering wasn't the right time for his story. Perhaps  another story had gotten everyone talking that night, and the mood and the conversation headed in another direction.  Maybe Dad had never really gotten the floor, and there's an art to first deserving, then holding, everyone's attention.  Whatever the reason, he made the right choice.  And on another Bridge club night, he played out that joke, and people recalled the telling for years. (By the way, don't ask me which joke it was: he had so many, and it most likely bent today's politically correct rules.)

Timing.  It can be everything.  So can content, and delivery style.  But the best content can be lost if the timing isn't calculated just so.

Recently, I've made many new acquaintances and have begun new friendships As the new kid, I get some attention...but not wholly all of it.  I've learned in my double-nickel life-span that people really are most interested in themselves.  I'm not shaming all of humankind, just making an observation that has empirical evidence.  In a conversation, it is more likely that you think about what you can contribute next, rather than listen carefully to what another person says.  If you are the one explaining, or relating, or pontificating, understand that your experience may be germane to the topic, but the teased out details, well, not so much.  Remember: the other person is beginning to think about what they can say in relation to your words.  Usually, your details are captivating only to you.

Sorry, this is true. UNLESS...
...the timing is right.

There are times when the minutiae of your escapade may capture the imaginations of others, and they are eager for you to go on! Go on!  Be sensitive: while you are certainly the most interesting person in your shorts to you, it would do you good to find out what's interesting about everyone else.  Don't be disappointed when new colleagues are more concerned about their weekend plans or where they are going for lunch than they are about what you used to do in your old job.  Let them take you to a new deli, and when they ASK you about your life, share a little and inquire a lot. Pretty soon, they'll get to know you.  And you'll get to know them.

My husband does a good job of this.  He knows his workmates backgrounds, their heritage, their hobbies, and a bit about their family life.  I'm sure they also know quite a bit about him, too, but he has taken the time to inquire and to listen.  His newness in his job does not qualify him as The Most Interesting Man in that office (although, he is certainly very interesting!).  There are lots of interesting people everywhere. With eager ears and careful words, we can develop a world where stories are told and retold to develop an ever-widening web of friendships 

Thursday, September 10, 2015

Making Do

My mother once brought me some new kitchen towels.  Now, a gift like that can rankle a daughter.  It's a bit like rearranging the kitchen cupboards so things are "more efficient." Yeah, I see you grinning.  You now what I mean.

But I reacted to this gift with puzzlement, not offense. "What is this for?" I wondered.  She really wasn't one to bring gifts at every visit, which was fine.  And it wasn't my birthday, nor was it Christmas.

"Because," she said, "sometimes, all you need is new kitchen towels."  The implication was that there was a lot of power in fresh kitchen towels.  She was right. The faded rags we were using to dry hands and dishes got relegated to the laundry room rag shelf, and the new cloths gave the kitchen a bit of pizzazz. I was surprised, not only by the effect of such a simple change, but by my mother's attitude.

This was the woman who taught us all to "make do." She made many of the clothes I wore in elementary school, as well as her own garments (she was a very talented seamstress). She could feed a hungry family of six on a shoestring budget, and our diet was varied and healthy.  She could work magic with leftovers, created hand-made ornaments to give to teachers and friends, and was generally frugal.  I was carrying on the tradition; I thought that being able to see through a dishrag was a point of pride, not shame!  And, if I could still wear things I'd owned for 10 years, well, that STILL is a point of pride (or a sign that those stretched out clothes need to be replaced, but I just don't accept that).

Mom also began to encourage replacing other belongings.  "Oh, just get a new one," she said of this or that.  Not big stuff, but, you know, kitchen towels!    Her circumstances had changed, and her perspective had definitely changed since I'd lived with her and four other humans.  She was comfortably retired.  She was not wealthy, but living in a home that was paid for, and with enough financial cushion for foreign travel. And, apparently, she no longer felt it necessary to "make do."

But, she wasn't extravagant.  What she showed me is that sometimes, it is the little things that can lift us, and we don't need to over-do it to brighten our corner of the world.

I still take pride in making do.  At the time of this writing, I've spent two-and-a-half months living like I'm camping.  My temporary residence is much more comfortable than a tent, but I've only got the clothing I could fit into one suitcase (one very full suitcase).  I'm  pleased that the weather remains as it was at the end of June. I cook in a kitchenette only slightly larger than the one in our r.v., and all of the music and papers I'm accumulating in new jobs are being filed in a paper bag. We wisely brought along our PRINTER (SUCH a smart decision) and a file box of important papers.  The summation of our lives could be contained in the back of our Grand Cherokee.

For the entirety of our marriage, we've "made do" with the couch my husband bought when he graduated college more than 35 years ago, the K-Mart shelves that bow recklessly, the bath towels that show signs of laundry mishaps. I'm glad we don't whine about what we don't have: we've been blessed with a lot, and the depression-era babies who became our parents taught us to strategize and minimize. (Mostly.  I must confess that when it comes to musical instruments, we have a "go-for-broke" attitude!)

But, when we move into the new house, I think I'll get some new bath towels.  Don't need kitchen towels: the ones I have aren't yet thin enough to read through.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Charming Autumn

Our current residence -- a lovely Airbnb in Redwood City with wonderful hosts -- is about one block from a local high school.  As I write this at 4:30 p.m. on a weekday, I occasionally hear the shrill chirp of a coach's whistle.  There are short, single bursts.  There are repetitive, Morse-code toots. There is a kind of double-chirp call, short LOOOONG, with an uplift at the end.   I'm sure each song has its specific meaning, and the brood being directed by these signals knows how to respond to each one.

I don't mind the noise.  We've currently got a bid prepared to buy a house that backs up to an elementary school, and I realize I would be delighted by the clatter and chatter of kids walking to and from school, or playing on the grounds at recess.

My own children are grown.  Both have begun their second decade since attending elementary school. ("Holy Jenkies!")  Perhaps that is why I am reflective when I hear these extra-curricular noises. I have no anxiety about how my son and daughter are going to get through their scholastic years because those years are through!  We all survived, and can look back with fondness.  Mostly fondness.

But autumn -- and especially the start of school -- has always had a charm for me. Is it because my birthday is during this season?  I read somewhere that people have an affinity for the season in which they were born.  I'll have to ask my son if he looks forward to the dead of winter.  Or is it because I was raised in a hemisphere where autumn was a fresh start season: new school year, new classmates and teachers, new chapters in life? Despite the coming on of winter, with the dying away of leaves and daylight, the arrival of the autumnal equinox brings an invigorating clarity to the air.  The humidity of summer -- suffered in almost every quarter of our country in some measure -- is blown clear by crisp breezes.  The sun may heat up the day, but the quality of that heat is more therapeutic than debilitating.  Though we will tire of them eventually, the sweaters we shake loose from their hidden recesses are like new clothes, and we don them with enthusiasm.

I suspect that here in the Bay Area of California, I may come to feel that autumn is perpetual.Winter may feel like a Midwest November that has no end.  Pumpkins on the stoop won't be buried by the dispatch from the snow-blower, they'll just shrivel as the days go by.  I'm grateful that winter will not bring snow that begins as enchanting precipitation and ends as suffocating burden, although I confess I might miss it.

But until I experience that, I am glad for the coach's peeps, and the drum line's rehearsal thrum, and the occasional shout or shriek from kids meandering home from school.  The light is changing, and it seems to offer promise.

THE CUSP OF AUTUMN
is a border with summer
that is jagged
and fickle;
an uncharted river
that meanders through
hot days
and cool nights,
brilliant sunsets
and cloudy morns. 
You can follow it,
and map its course as you go,
but it is unpredictable.

You turn, and there:
the gloomy charcoal sky,
the brilliant flaming treetop,
the scent of burning leaves,
resurrect a memory
without explicit place or time.

It  teases; an ethereal spirit
has been conjured
to make you
recollect that you
have a recollection at all.
There is no specific year,
there is no specific place,
there is no specific vision
that begins a trail to follow
to clear remembrance.

You only sense
that the abacus of your days
begins its calculations 
with autumn.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Fleeting Fame Bonus

This is how it is with fame

This is how it is with fame:
One minute, you’re on stage
receiving accolades and praises,
the next minute, you’re driving
in your daughter’s used car
with the hole in the exhaust
through the Burger King,
wearing your concert gown
with the corsage still pinned on.

You wonder just what kind of quality
you’ll get at this late hour,
but it’s burger and fries (especially
the fries) that you want,
and after the laudations of a satisfied
public, you think you deserve it.

At home, your jammies
are nothing special:
a t-shirt you got in Jamaica,
and some worn pajama bottoms,
the matching top of which
you can no longer find.
But you found your way along
the keyboard tonight, and you
made an impression on the guest
celebrity who was your partner
for the evening.

But your home is ordinary,
and your bedclothes are humble,
and tomorrow you’ll no longer
be justifying late-night French fries
just because you could do something
at one required instant that not many
others can do.  Tomorrow

will be leftovers.

Fleeting Fame

If you've ever taken a bow, or accepted an award, or even just received a compliment, then you've tasted fame. Artist and cultural prophet Andy Warhol said (in 1968): "in the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." I can't say I've ever been world famous, but I have been in the spotlight a few times and actually have received applause for something I've done.  My 15 minutes are slowly ticking off, at least in this lifetime: I've probably got about four minutes left.

But what does notoriety earn for anyone (besides notoriety)?  Perhaps fortune does follow fame, but there are  rich people who are relatively unknown, and famous people who've either squandered their wealth, or earn a working man's wage despite their celebrity.

You might be notorious for infamous reasons, achieving some modicum of celebrity because you have become a bad example for all to avoid and warn about: "See, Billy?  You don't want to turn out like THAT!"  Depending on the severity and distastefulness of the deed, this may be a fame you relish.  But I don't recommend seeking it.

You may earn kudos and "attaboys" for endeavors that are worthy, good and true...and entirely volunteer.  There are plaques hanging on walls in appreciation for lots of unpaid work.  Important, and worthy of a public thank you, but coming without any compensation, other than a fist bump of gratitude.

You may receive lots of heart-felt praise and ovation for something deserving it.  Your name may be in bold print somewhere, or on a marquee, or whispered by admirers and, by golly, you did work hard, and you spent time, and EARNED those few seconds of fame.

And it is all fleeting.  Not without merit, just fleeting.

An employee being celebrated for his longevity at a company and, in particular, his perfect attendance for forty-plus years (ye gads!) was heard to make this comment: "Put your hand in a bucket of water.  Now pull it out.  The hole you leave behind is how much you'll be missed."

This is not sad; it is truth in perspective.  And it prompts us to understand that what we do today, whether ruling the roost or simply layin' the eggs, may or may not have any impact on tomorrow.  But it DOES have impact today, and no matter how ordinary, it is worth doing well TODAY.

I recently left positions where I was publicly visible and publicly acknowledged for what I did.  What I did (performing music) brought me great pleasure; not only to play, but to associate with wonderful people who participated and directed this music-making. There was shared heartache when I announced that I was leaving and, consequently, a bit of fuss.

But now, new things are happening in the places I've left.  Fresh ideas, fresh perspectives, perhaps better things.  I am now in a place where I'm unknown and unproven: it's humbling.  Like most of you, I'm trying to make my mark in this world and, in some sense, leave a legacy. But there's always new people coming along to take up the cause or introduce a new one.  It is a bit of a struggle for me, but I'm convincing myself there's great value in the ordinary things that we do each day, regardless of the applause that will not be offered.

In this world of Instagram and YouTube posting, 15 minutes of world-wide fame isn't necessarily out of the question; but we owe it to ourselves and those who are coming behind us to recognize the worth of our unexceptional, ordinary offerings.

ORDINARY CHILDREN
Children of ours,
how we do go on and on,
layering “specialness” on you
like coats of paint covering
interior walls with each new fashion.

We want for you a special life,
and all the nagging and provoking,
is to motivate you
to be special forever.

But it is a life most ordinary
that you will likely live.
Small circles of friends and colleagues
will nod at your triumphs
and overlook your mistakes.
Extraordinary deeds –
            and the extraordinary reactions due them –
will most likely not be yours to experience.

The accomplishments you most cherish
will be remembered by few:
others hold memories of their own,
and have no need to recollect yours.

The achievements that generate personal pride
may get an admiring comment or two,
but personal pride is not a trait
that most will appreciate.

Perhaps we are misguided,
and it is that ordinary life
for which we should prepare you:
ordinary job, ordinary spouse,
ordinary income, ordinary house.

The places you’ll go may not be so far,
and it may be small, insignificant steps
that take you away from us
and on to a new life of your own.

But down this ordinary path,
make each typical step extraordinary
and you will find that we were right:

You are special.

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Liturgy of Living


When things change, especially drastically, the unmooring from the routine you know can be quite discomfiting. Changes that occur because of something foreboding or threatening -- such as rescheduling your life because you need medical care, or because you've lost your job -- need no explanation for their disruption.  The future looks hazy at best, with the potential outcome pretty bleak: of course you're going to feel uncomfortable.  (Sorry to be such a downer, right outta the chute.)

But changes we choose -- new job, new home, new venue -- while exciting, can also be upsetting. An inducement of the recent topsy-turvy undulation of our lives at mid-life was a "what-the-heck" attitude that we redefined as courage.  It propelled us to uproot and take flight and all of those other euphemisms to  "just do it."  So we just did it, and while we don't rue that decision, it has lost some of its charm. Sometimes, we're pretty mopey.

That mopiness comes from the fatigue to keep up our enthusiasm.  Perhaps adventure is best set upon when you've got something staid and secure to return to.  A beautiful song by Marta Keen Thompson, "Homeward Bound," captures this sentiment beautifully (check out the full lyrics online.  The song even has its own Facebook page!).  One line is "When adventure's lost its meaning, I'll be homeward bound in time."  The refrain is:
"Bind me not to the pasture, chain me not to the plow. 
 Set me free to find my calling, and I'll return to you somehow."

Vacations are great, and travel has always instigated wistful wanderlust in both my husband and me.  Now that we've wandered far from home (with no home to return to), our adventuresome spirit is waning a bit. While we don't want to slip back into being mundane, there is sanity and sanctity in familiar routine: a liturgy of living, I suppose.  Our challenge is to find what the new routine will be; the current one, with its loose ends, is not one we want to continue!  I will add that being together establishes a grounded stake to which we can tether those loose ends that flap in the breeze. That is a blessing.

What we all need is "purpose."  Nothing will deplete your energy more than lacking one.  It is a struggle to deem even ordinary tasks and pursuits as meriting the moniker of  "purpose."  But I think it's possible, which is why I pursue this writing thing, and look for ways I can excel in  everyday details.


SOCKS

I take great pride
in matching my husband’s black socks
just so.
Though uniform in color,
their ridges are a garden-variety
of narrow and wide,
variants that don’t mix well
in a fabric bouquet.

The size is consistent:
all long-stemmed and broad-leaved.
But there is gold on some toes,
a pollen polka-dot
that pairs only with similarly flecked.
Mixing won’t match,

and matching is essential.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Step Forward Bonus - Poems

HORIZONS


A free range stretched before us.
A vastness to the land and sky
made us breath deeper,
as though we could take in
every cubic measurement
of air and moisture, nourishment
to our courage and efforts.

Some fields lay fallow: our
choices would cultivate them.
Other fields bore generous
harvests: we could lay a path
and take our fill for our
storehouses of possibilities.

That was then: we now have
as much stretching behind us
as we have before us – maybe
more that we’ve passed through
than what we have yet to pass.
Fields are overgrown.
Intersections surprise us;
from the middle of the acreage,
we can’t see round the bend.
It is a continuous sea
of one
single
crop.
Is this our lot?


Purge Surge Bonus - poems

BURNING DOORS

The flames have a papery quality,
curling at their ends,
disappearing like vapor
at the apex of their reach.

We’re burning doors:
bedroom doors, closet doors;
hollow, cheap things that were
replaced with fancy paneled pieces
that gate our privacy,
though nothing needs to be concealed.

The kids are gone; the only personal
effects remaining in their rooms
are ones I want to keep, to create
some magic spell when they discover
forgotten bric-a-brac on a return visit.

The closets hold domestic things:
towels, cleaning supplies, light-bulbs.
We could dismantle the new doors, burn them, too,
and leave the shelves revealed
for all to see.

There’s nothing hidden now
in this house; just a cock
and his hen living among the sticks
left behind.


Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Step Forward

Up and down rocks
on Precipice Trail,
Acadia National Park, Maine USA
My mother often recalled the story of the day I learned to ride a two-wheeled bike.  Dad had removed my training wheels, and I was going to master the thing!  It was a hot summer day, but I stuck to it: getting on, pedaling, falling, getting on again.

I came inside, hot and sweaty, and asked for a drink.  "Why don't you sit down for a few minutes and cool off?" my mother remembered asking.  "No," I replied, breathlessly, "gotta do this." And back I went, the screen door slamming behind me, to scrap up my knees and bruise my shins.  I was riding on two wheels by the end of the afternoon.  My legs were pretty banged up, but not my pride nor my ego.

What the heck happened to that determined little girl?

My close friends will probably say that determined little girl grew into a determined adult.  As mentioned in a previous post, I'm not known for my sentimentality, and I would add that I'm not known for sensitive patience, either.  I want those around me to get with the program, or fill me in succinctly so I can join.  Given a task (and the tools necessary), I go go go!  My husband likes to start things: I want them finished.  We're either a perfect match, or a lit one!

But I'll elaborate my question: what happened to that determined little girl who would keep trying, despite faltering several times?

Our recent cross-country move upheaved us by our roots; now we're anxious to be planted.  But I'm not sure I need to bloom in the same way.  In fact, I embraced this grand adventure with excitement that I could possibly be "re-invented."  Did I need to build a schedule of musical endeavors just like the one I had left behind?  Was I a particularly-shaped block that fit into a similarly-shaped hole?  Or could I try putting corporeality to a dream?  Perhaps I could even return to a previous iteration of who I was and what I did.

In that vein, I have considered (and even applied) to positions requiring writing skills, employee relations experience, personal public relations.  Part of me (that two-wheeler aficionado) wants to keep up the effort to make that work.  I'll be throwing my hat up in the air like MTM in Minneapolis! But, there's a part of me that is now a cautious adult, thinking through all things carefully, not wanting to start what I may not finish "perfectly." (Ah!  There's the real problem!)

At my age, people expect knowledge and wisdom: I can't impress people anymore with wisdom beyond my years because my years suggest I've got wisdom! What would be ideal is if my past experience proved that I was reasonably bright and self-motivated, and given those traits, would be an excellent candidate, if someone was willing to take a chance and show me how.

So I find my steps forward are really back into the comfortable footings of familiar surroundings. Not so bad, when being a contributing member of society is your goal.  Might as well contribute what you truly have to give.  But I would very much like the incantation to conjure the spirit of that determined little girl who willingly accepted the bumps and cuts of trying hard...and was pleased, even when the outcome was wobbly.

Let's wobble on.



Thursday, August 13, 2015

Purge Surge

So. Much. Stuff.

When we put our house up for sale, we were told to clear it out for showing, to leave nothing smaller than a bread loaf on any surface.  Each day, after brushing my teeth, I'd pack away the toothbrush holder -- a plastic black box with holes -- just in case someone was interested in wandering through our house that day.  We were to "give people an opportunity to imagine themselves living there," with no remnants of lives lived there before.  Even lives with good dental hygiene, apparently.

To vacate living space, we gave items to the Salvation Army or sold them online.  We packed up books, CDs and VHS tapes.  We gave away the shelves on which these things were stored.  We gave away couches (yes, couchES...plural noun), we gave away dressers, we gave away desks.  I gave away one grand piano to my son, paying for its shipment to Montana.

And I gave away my grandmother's iron bed, a three-quarter sized hulk-of-a-thing that  I had personally cleaned and repainted when I was a teenager.  We'd had a custom-sized mattress made for our daughter to use with the frame.  I had notified my children that I had no intention of carting, across the country, belongings that they wanted but couldn't take right away. Either they accepted them now, or they were tossed. My daughter declined the bed.  I had no use for it.  My grandmother's bed, given away.

I realized I was the end: the last one to have a linear connection to these things. My kids did not want these items: they hadn't eaten cookies served on particular plates, or visited the family homestead where these earthy treasures had first been collected.  Purchased or handmade, these things were used, mended, and reused until they had become iconic.  They were the triggers for stories, links to a family's past.  As I pulled things to the curb, I said aloud "it stops with me."

What is interesting is the ordinariness of these things: a cobalt blue pitcher with matching glasses that belonged to my grandmother is still among the bric-a-brac currently in storage, waiting for us to get a residence.  The set is beautiful, but not very useful: the pitcher's cracked, and the white sailboats painted on the glassware are rubbing off.  It is shelved for show.  I've heard the story that the set was some kind of premium received with the purchase of detergent or perhaps S&H Green Stamps.  Will the things I buy at Bed, Bath & Beyond today become the priceless relics of tomorrow?  Lord, don't let me burden my children with that!

My husband has labeled me the least sentimental person he knows (he has had to teach me a little nursery-style rhyme to remember our wedding anniversary).  But there are some things I cherish because my own mortality is minimized by their existence: the people who first owned and used them linger with us still just because this stuff is in my hands.  Given away, we all stop.  I am the end.

And that leaves me with only the next step forward as an option.




Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Third Acts

Off We Go

Recently, I extracted myself from all that was familiar and moved with my husband 2,400 miles west of the place we'd called home for 27 years.  That's a lifetime.  No, really: it's my son's lifetime.  We moved to Michigan from Arizona when I was seven months pregnant, and we calculated tenure by his birth.

Seems inconceivable to have spent that much time anywhere. It's inconceivable to have spent that much time on earth!  Does everyone experience this dumbfoundedness as they age? I recall my grandparents being quite comfortable with their elderliness.  They fell into an easy swing, keeping a regularity of mealtimes, walks, tedious tasks that passed the time and gave them purpose. Weekly menus stayed the same, their clothes, their haircuts, the purchases they made: there was nothing new to adjust to, and that was fine with them.  Why is it my friends and I seem restless?

I won't count myself among the "elderly," something for which I'm sure my peer group is relieved. But I count my years and realize I'm past middle-age.  Years ago at a thirtieth birthday party, a friend received a t-shirt that said (paraphrased) "I'm not going downhill: I'm still climbing.  That's why I'm tired all the time."  But I am now feeling the wind in my hair.  My life roller coaster car has tipped over the top.  Y2K was how long ago?  Seems like just last year we were questioning our reluctance to store in our crawl space water jugs with added drops of bleach, and some cans of spam.  And Fig Newtons.  To quote my father:"They just never deteriorate!"

Yes, the acronym YOLO makes the rounds these days, and as far as we all know, it's true.  Even if it isn't true, we don't remember the previous lives, so it's moot.  Currently, I'm spending a lot of time on my own in small studio apartments as J and I move from one Airbnb rental to another, an adventure of its own, I suppose.  The niggling daydream I've had for years to be recognized as a writer is now an annoying idea.  I either act on it, or I let it go.  I let go of a lot of stuff when we emptied our house, realizing that if my kids didn't want it, it ended with me (more on this another time).  But instead of letting go of this particular fantasy, I need to make it reality.

So here goes.  And the question of the day: what are you taking with you in your coaster car as you pick up speed going downhill?

THE MIDDLE AGE
They call it middle age.
It is hoped that this age is the middle,
and some other age is the end.
The Middle Ages is most noted for the plague:
the Black Death.  The Shadow of Death,
for all its blackness, hangs over me
in my middle age.
I think about dying more now
than when I was a child, first experiencing death
with aged relatives
who had odd behaviors
and certainly were ready for it.

My father died at 58.  “So young,”
said women in the plant
where I worked.  “Really?” I thought,
all of 22 , and seeing the middle age landscape
as a distant horizon. 
I’ve always been bad with distances.

I consider now my husband dying,
and want some reverse incantation
just in case the thought alone
conjures the hooded specter.
I think of me dying, and am both
intrigued and afraid. 
As a believer, I want to see Jesus,
and want also to have Him give me some great
assignment I have to complete here
on earth
that will take a long,

long time.