Category Archives: Journal

Sixty-two and Senior

I recently read somewhere, and it might have been fiction, that you’re not a senior until you’re 62. I turned 62 in March. How in the world did I ever get here? This river of life my boat has been traversing has been moving at a fearsome speed while I drifted unaware, content to celebrate the spring blooms, to listen to the music of the summer rains, to contemplate the floating leaves as they fall from the fiery trees, and to marvel at the magic and beauty when I discover, upon dawn, a pristine snowfall blanketing the ground and decorating the bare limbs of trees. My life moved on all the while, and I wasn’t paying attention.

Maybe it is fiction.

I’m going to have to change the subtitle of my original blog, “Random Thoughts from Midlife,” to “Senior Moments.” Maybe it will be more lighthearted and humorous. Maybe the last quarter of my life will be more like the first without all the hard work and angst that happened in-between. There will be more good-byes. I know that now. But maybe, like most things in life, it will get easier to say good-bye with experience. Maybe it will be easier to surrender to the inevitability of loss. I don’t know. I can only hope.

All I know is that my boat is still on this river, and it is still moving, carrying me forward. This boat only moves in one direction. Reverse is not an option.

Ohio River

~~~~~

 

 

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The red on a blackbird’s wing

I’m finding it hard to write. My mind is so full of things it wants to say that it has created a logjam like the drainage stones I sometimes put in the bottom of a pot for a plant, the pressure of one against the others keeps them all captive and unable to slip through the hole.

So I make attempts to organize the information:

Letters to my mother—

Why did you have to leave when I wasn’t ready for you to go? Why was there so little time at the end, and that taken up by the necessities of life drawing down to an end like the last stingy trickle of shampoo squeezed from a bottle held upside down? I wish I would have known thirty years ago what I know today and then maybe I would have taken the time to really know who you were.

Observations on how the world has shifted, and why nothing seems the same.

Deliberations on what to do next to find meaning in what often feels like a purposeless life.

I could do a whole study on “things.”

Why do we have so many things? How can we just exit and leave everything behind? Should I begin to get rid of my prized possessions now so that my children won’t have to make heart-wrenching decisions as to whether my books get sold, donated, or stored in a box in someone’s basement? And is someone walking around today in my mother’s green spring sweater?  So many things. We buy because we think we need. We keep in case someday we might need. Or someone gave to us because they thought we needed or would like to have. Poof. We exit. And yet every thing that we kept, bought, were given, held dear, or merely tolerated, is left sitting on its shelf, in a cabinet, or in a drawer. Unclaimed freight.

Why do the things we leave behind plague me so?

Contemplations on the age-old question, what is it all about?

My world has shifted and my mind is full, yet I remain largely speechless.

But the crimson on the wing of the blackbird shines red in the sun to me. Still.