NaBloPoMo - Day 6
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I'm still in my jammies, under the quilt, propped up by pillow. If I crane my neck I can see out the window that the rains rolled in sometime in the night. The sky touches the mountain tops. We're almost to that stage in autumn when there are more leaves on the ground than the trees. Some, still hang on tenaciously, not yet willing to let go.
Ah, now there's a metaphor for you.
I guess it's no surprise to anyone that I have a hard time letting go. Am I afraid that if I let go, I won't remember? My mother's face? My father's ambiguous, stingy love?
Even the crap things in my life that I'd gladly hand off to the Great Dumpster in the sky, come back, unbeckoned over and over again. They, too, define me in a way. If I bid them goodbye, what happens to that part of me?
If an anthropologist was studying the bones of my existence (s)he'd find distinct periods of time. The Married Age, The Going Home Age, and The Moving On Age. Perhaps this segment of time moves slow because I'm in it. I'm not rushing to the end to see what comes next. But I do wonder what Moving On will look like 5 or 10 years from now. What will I have released and not feel bound by any longer? What will I still hold tight and gnaw on like Maizey and her giant bone? What might I have forgotten instead wrapped up and stashed away, like mom's tea set that never gets used but is still sits waiting in the closet.
An hour or so later ….
The sun has appeared, the mist burned away. I see some white clouds moving to the forefront, waving goodbye to the grey ones. Leaves are dancing on slight wind like ballerinas spinning across the stage.
Later still…
We went into the tourist part of Blue Ridge today. Getting there and back is a little like mountain climbing without the backpack, crampons, belay device and carabiners. Well, dang, it is mountain climbing, isn't it? Around and around we went, narrow road, tight switchbacks. I was glad to be in the back seat and not driving.
I'm sure the locals don't spend a lot of time or money on this street. We had a wonderful lunch that was nothing like you'd expect to find in a southern town. No mom. No pop. No cornbread, country ham or black-eyed peas. The surprising thing is that four of the women in this group are healthy eaters. I'm talking vegans who only eat organic. They ordered hot dogs. HOT DOGS? Big ol' dogs dressed up in crispy bread, with some fancy condiment on the side. You can dress them up, but a hot dog is still a hot dog, right? Someone asked for ketchup. Not that there is anything wrong with hot dogs. I was just a little surprised and wondered how well a giant dog goes with Onion soup made with three different kinds of onions and apple juice.
After lunch we paired up to wonder in and out of shops looking at things too expensive for my pocketbook. I did find a really good deal on scarves. When I got ready to pay for them, I couldn't use my credit card. Alas I was money-less. Grrr.
Before heading down the mountain, I looked in the zippered part of my wallet where I thought I had stashed the majority of my spending money. Imagine my surprise when it wasn't there. It wasn't in my suitcase, my sweatshirt pockets, the car, the wallet I left at home. It was gone. Losing 80 dollars is upsetting regardless. But misplacing the money came on the heels of losing the rental car contract which has been driving me crazy all week. I figured both the money and the contract were lying in the road somewhere near the Avis car park. In other words, never to be seen again.
To back track a little, a few months ago Sweetie scared himself and me by thinking he had entered the first stages of dementia. Several doctors' visits later, and some medication changes and he is much happier and remembering things again. I, on the other hand, feel like I'm on the slippery slope to that "room" that Johnson has already picked out for me. I don't know if I've got sympathy dementia or the real thing. I feel sure putting money in a safe place then forgetting where that place is has to be on the list of symptoms.
It put me in a funky mood. I felt stupid and angry. So I set myself apart from the group. When there was free moment, I'd try counting backwards from 100 by sevens.
The happy ending to this story is the magic that happens when the brain that I thought had shriveled up to the size of a donut hole gets a momentary flash of brilliance and I see myself putting the folded bills not in the wallet I brought with me, but the checkbook I left at home. Someone please tell my son to cancel the room.
After a dinner of leftovers, the group and three boxes of tissues, gathered together again. The cold bug had claimed another victim. Each of us read something we've written while here. Seriously folks, I wish you could hear this stuff. Nine writers sharing what they do best is something to behold.
I guess it's no surprise to anyone that I have a hard time letting go. Am I afraid that if I let go, I won't remember? My mother's face? My father's ambiguous, stingy love?
Even the crap things in my life that I'd gladly hand off to the Great Dumpster in the sky, come back, unbeckoned over and over again. They, too, define me in a way. If I bid them goodbye, what happens to that part of me?
If an anthropologist was studying the bones of my existence (s)he'd find distinct periods of time. The Married Age, The Going Home Age, and The Moving On Age. Perhaps this segment of time moves slow because I'm in it. I'm not rushing to the end to see what comes next. But I do wonder what Moving On will look like 5 or 10 years from now. What will I have released and not feel bound by any longer? What will I still hold tight and gnaw on like Maizey and her giant bone? What might I have forgotten instead wrapped up and stashed away, like mom's tea set that never gets used but is still sits waiting in the closet.
An hour or so later ….
The sun has appeared, the mist burned away. I see some white clouds moving to the forefront, waving goodbye to the grey ones. Leaves are dancing on slight wind like ballerinas spinning across the stage.
Later still…
We went into the tourist part of Blue Ridge today. Getting there and back is a little like mountain climbing without the backpack, crampons, belay device and carabiners. Well, dang, it is mountain climbing, isn't it? Around and around we went, narrow road, tight switchbacks. I was glad to be in the back seat and not driving. I'm sure the locals don't spend a lot of time or money on this street. We had a wonderful lunch that was nothing like you'd expect to find in a southern town. No mom. No pop. No cornbread, country ham or black-eyed peas. The surprising thing is that four of the women in this group are healthy eaters. I'm talking vegans who only eat organic. They ordered hot dogs. HOT DOGS? Big ol' dogs dressed up in crispy bread, with some fancy condiment on the side. You can dress them up, but a hot dog is still a hot dog, right? Someone asked for ketchup. Not that there is anything wrong with hot dogs. I was just a little surprised and wondered how well a giant dog goes with Onion soup made with three different kinds of onions and apple juice.
After lunch we paired up to wonder in and out of shops looking at things too expensive for my pocketbook. I did find a really good deal on scarves. When I got ready to pay for them, I couldn't use my credit card. Alas I was money-less. Grrr.
Before heading down the mountain, I looked in the zippered part of my wallet where I thought I had stashed the majority of my spending money. Imagine my surprise when it wasn't there. It wasn't in my suitcase, my sweatshirt pockets, the car, the wallet I left at home. It was gone. Losing 80 dollars is upsetting regardless. But misplacing the money came on the heels of losing the rental car contract which has been driving me crazy all week. I figured both the money and the contract were lying in the road somewhere near the Avis car park. In other words, never to be seen again.
To back track a little, a few months ago Sweetie scared himself and me by thinking he had entered the first stages of dementia. Several doctors' visits later, and some medication changes and he is much happier and remembering things again. I, on the other hand, feel like I'm on the slippery slope to that "room" that Johnson has already picked out for me. I don't know if I've got sympathy dementia or the real thing. I feel sure putting money in a safe place then forgetting where that place is has to be on the list of symptoms.
It put me in a funky mood. I felt stupid and angry. So I set myself apart from the group. When there was free moment, I'd try counting backwards from 100 by sevens.
The happy ending to this story is the magic that happens when the brain that I thought had shriveled up to the size of a donut hole gets a momentary flash of brilliance and I see myself putting the folded bills not in the wallet I brought with me, but the checkbook I left at home. Someone please tell my son to cancel the room.
After a dinner of leftovers, the group and three boxes of tissues, gathered together again. The cold bug had claimed another victim. Each of us read something we've written while here. Seriously folks, I wish you could hear this stuff. Nine writers sharing what they do best is something to behold.
It's been a long day. I'm ready for bed.
Merry ME
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