This getting older stuff has its definite down side.  For example, this smiling Irish imp, Father Vinny McKiernan, died earlier this week.  We've been friends for over 40 years, and this is one of those deaths where I find myself curling into a fetal position and trying to breathe.
At 1:30 in the morning, after downing several glasses of wine, my mind was whirring.  I found myself compelled to write the following, which is probably only legible to me, so I'll type it here.  I know you didn't know Vinny (most of you) but the feeling of loss is pretty much universal, so I thought I'd share it with you.

"Thrashing around like a wounded animal.  Drunk on the wine I poured to dull the pain, but not enough, because it raises its head again like sea serpent about to engulf the world.

You've slipped from my sight, but not my heart.  I feel your presence still, although I know I won't feel another hug or hear that voice again, at least not on this side of the gulf that divides us.  What is heaven like?  Because there's nowhere else you could be with your gentle heart and deep wisdom.

You've spent your life aiming for where you are now, but I am writhing with the pain of not having you here with me.  Why can't I be happy for you?  I suppose it will come with time, and with more time after that I hope to join you, even if you have to thrown down a thick rope with a huge knot in the end to pull me up.

Your friendship was and is a gift.  One I've never really understood.  It's not false humility.  I just know me better than you did.  I never deserved to have an angel for a friend, a channel of God's love and mercy right there for me.  Always there for me  Still there for me.
I'll continue to bend  your ear and ask your advice, your help, your love.  But just for now I'm thrashing with the missing of you and wondering how on earth I'll fill this void you've left behind.

Life is so much shorter than I thought. I'm being greedy, wanting you to stay when you've put in 93 years and must have been getting tired.  I don't want to be a hundred myself.  There are days now when I think, "OK, Lord.  That'll do."  But there's more work to do here.

I feel as though at 71 I'm just beginning to come into my own, to use my talents, to reach others, to share what I've learned. But however long it is from here until the day when it's my turn to go home I will love you and miss you and be stunned at how we ever became such wonderful friends and how you became this giant piece of my heart and my life  I'm truly not worthy, but God, am I grateful."

Hug your friends.  Live your life  Open your eyes.  And be kind to one another.  

Once upon a time I used to write in a journal.  I still do occasionally, but not often.  In cleaning recently (something else I only do "occasionally, but not often") I came across the following and I wanted to share it with you.  
I know so many exhausted young mothers who think this phase will never end.  Guess what?  It does.  Faster than you think.  I hope you get something out of this.

Mother’s Day
Unlike my love of cooking, motherhood came to me late.  My love of cooking never arrived at all.  But Jake arrived when I was forty and Jim ten days after I turned forty-two.  My standard joke was that I was a double threat to the ecology.  By the time my sons were both out of disposable diapers I’d be going into them.  But enough of that.

There are benefits to being an older mother.  Perspective is the first thing that comes to mind.  What I lack in endurance I’d like to think I make up for in wisdom.  Of course, that depends on the day.  When you’re in your forties you have figured out how fast twenty years speed by.  The sticky fingers on the wallpaper, the endless requests for drinks of water to stall bedtime, the whining (oh lord, the whining) seem as though they will last forever.  But I have the advantage of knowing what an empty apartment sounds like.  It has its moments, but as a steady diet it wears rather thin.  I know that these whirlwinds making circles around my legs as I attempt to cook something edible for dinner will be off with friends and interests of their own before I can say “instant pudding”.
This is a mixed blessing, to be sure.  Along with the relief that comes with the thought that these constant demands upon my attention won’t last forever is an ache that acknowledges the same truth.  Already the funny little speech glitches are disappearing.  I don’t remember when Jake stopped calling strawberries “budda-dyes”, but I know I miss it.  One of my great joys is when Jimmy goes on and on about something which is obviously very important and serious, and strangers look to me for a translation which I am at a loss to give.   I make several guesses at what he’s talking about and if, by accident, I guess right I am rewarded with “Yah, Mummy, dat right!”  That won’t last long and I’ll miss it when it stops.

“Working mother” is such a redundant phrase.  While the full time job I’ve held for twenty years is demanding, it pales in comparison to my weekends.  By Monday morning when I turn my little angels over to our daycare provider (there should be another name for this woman who runs my family) I am longing for a cup of hot coffee and realizing again that we don’t pay Ellen nearly enough.  The day starts at 5:30 AM and after a scramble to dress squirmy bodies and brush gnashing teeth, we are out the door.  There is a fight over who gets to press the button to open the automatic door locks.  We listen to the same song fourteen times between our front door and Ellen’s door. If they can tear themselves way from “Sesame Street” long enough to kiss Daddy and me goodbye I plant an extra lipstick kiss of the back of each chubby hand “for later”.  When I pick them up at 5:30 we race to get Dad at the subway station by 6, then it’s home, throw together a fast meal, pajamas, teeth brushing, story and bed by 8:30.  Then I start the laundry.

But at three o’clock in the morning something wakes me more nights than not.  It’s not a need to go to the bathroom.  It’s the need to get one more peek at these sleeping miracles.  Jim’s posterior is stuck high up in the air and he’s sucking happily on the “binky” I worry is ruining his teeth.  Jake is usually upside down, his legs sticking further out of his pajama legs than I would imagine possible.  When did he get that tall?  I cover them with blankets which I know will be kicked off before I reach the door.  I pat little curls down and try not to wake them with my need to touch them.  Sometimes I wonder when their real parents will come to get them.  Then I remember forty-four and twenty-two hours of labor respectively and realize that, oh yeah, they really are mine.  I worry about what they will face in their futures.  The hurts I won’t be able to fix with a hug.  I worry about all the other children out there who are beaten or worse by their parents.  The thought of hungry children, of hurting children, of sick children used to depress me.  Now the thought grips my guts and twists like an angry fist.  I pray to my god in the darkness and give thanks for my healthy and reasonably happy children.  I stand awestruck between  the crib and the bed and I try as hard as I can to memorize this moment.  To memorize what they look like, the sound of their breathing.  To remind myself that soon I’ll be up at this hour waiting for their key to turn in the lock.  But it’s useless.  Already I look at pictures taken when they were babies, and I don’t remember living with those people.  And I was trying to memorize those moments, too.
​
And that, in a nutshell, is the difference between having your first baby at twenty and having it at forty.   Happy Mother’s Day.

 It's been forever since I've sent out a post.  July of last year.  Ridiculous.  I'm not sure why.  The days of a retiree seem to go by at breakneck speed and I find myself overwhelmed (not edge of whelmed) with piano lessons and e-mail and laundry and visits to elderly relatives and the nagging thought that whatever I'm doing it isn't enough.  So I take a nap.  Or fall down the rabbit hole of You Tube or Facebook or Words With Friends.  Sometimes I wish I didn't have a computer.  I seriously wonder how anything got done when I was working in an office forty hours a week.

Admittedly I like to write (Palmer method) with a really good pen....sometimes a fountain pen...on yellow legal pads and compose poems or long lists of things to do, most of which get carried over from one page to the next for weeks and sometimes months on end.  The entirety of Lent went by with very little acknowledgement from me.  So on this, the first day after Easter, I'll start a "reverse Lent" and try to serious up from here......

Yesterday I took down the Christmas lights on the front porch and we finally got the tree (undecorated) out of the living room and into the attic.  It just wouldn't have felt right to still have it up in April.  If procrastination were an Olympic event I'm pretty sure I'd be looking at gold.

I do, however, find my approach to advanced years is getting more interesting.  Today I decided that I've become the Velveteen Rabbit.  The sharp edges have been worn away and I've calmed down a lot, even though that's pretty tough in an election year.  I don't care so much about the things I used to care about.  Wrinkles?  Meh.  Weight?  So what?  But kindness, ah, that's something else.  Trying  to not overreact to a difference in opinion, trying to learn how to listen, trying to appreciate and really understand at a visceral level that everyone is carrying a bag of rocks, some small and some large, that's become important.  

Mortality is an interesting and timely topic.  My fiftieth college reunion is next month, I've lost and continue to lose too many old friends, and all of this reminds me like a two by four to the back of the head that I actually DON'T have all the time in the world.  Anything that's going to get done had better get going right now or it's not going to get finished. 

My older sister, Cheryl, would take me for walks when I was a little girl.  She's nine years older than I am, and she would take me by the hand and it seemed like every four steps she would give my arm a tug and say "Look where you're going, not where you've been."  It used to tick me off no end because there was an awful lot to look at that was still new to me.  These days  I'm finding the direction helpful.  My memory is rubbish.  I can never leave Himself not only because he's wonderful, but also because I would have no past.  I console myself with the thought that this means that I am living in the present moment, which is such a cool zen thing to do.  I also like the thought of where I'm going.  I have as many friends on one side of The Great Divide as I have on the other, so reunions will be nice.  And I am increasingly grateful for my faith which is such a comfort in this scary world.  The world has always been scary.  It's always looked as if Armageddon were around the corner.  But in my wrinkled wonderfulness I have learned to take all the problems I cannot solve and put them in the lap of the Deity and hope She doesn't stand up.  

Oh yeah.  And humor.  Whatever else you lose as you age, don't lose that.  

Talk to you all soon.  Or at least that's the plan!

Today's epiphany is that the planet is more or less our neighborhood and everyone is our neighbor.  I stand (or sit at the moment, actually) in awe of the 21st Century.  Yesterday I had a lovely chat with my dear friend, Glad, who lives in Canada.  Today SO FAR (it is changing from minute to minute) I have exchanged conversations with friends in Northern Ireland, North Wales, France, and I just now got a message from a friend in China.  It's getting wonderfully weird.

These friends are not new, and perhaps it's not so surprising that I've heard from them all today since I've been making a concerted effort to get in touch with people I don't see or hear from often enough.  But REALLY!!  All of these contacts from people I can't reach out and hug are making my head and my heart whirl.

For example, what, when you get right down to it, is the difference between these friends with whom I can't sit down to share a meal, and the ever-growing parade of friends and family who have left on another level?  The presence of all the people I have loved and lost remains very real to me.  I miss them, I can't see them, but they're always with me, tucked away in some pocket of my heart (which I usually picture as one of those shoe-bags that hang on the back of the door...each with its dedicated spot). 
​
At the moment Himself is in the process of transferring slides to computer images before we lose them all.  Some of those go back to before we were married, but most are of our early years, the kids growing up, the wrinkles arriving, etc.  And in among the children and our younger, less gray and thinner selves, are friends and family, forever frozen in time.  Seeing the pictures is enough to summon the presence, the feelings, the sounds of those encounters.  Another friend who took a too-early ride on a rainbow, used to exchange endless e-mails with me when I was a stay-at-home and over-aged mom trying to keep my sanity.  Before I retired I printed out every e-mail (on company time!) and when I take out the notebook in which I've saved them I can hear his voice as though he were on the other end of the phone.

I am not living in the past.  My memory isn't dependable enough for that.  And I'm not in a big hurry to get to the other side of The Great Divide.  I've still got stuff to do.  Nevertheless I am feeling enormously comforted today, and very much in touch with people both here and there, wherever "there" is.  We're not lost to one another.  We're just not in the same place anymore.  One of these days I do believe we will be.  Until that happens, reach out to the people YOU don't connect with often enough.  Maybe even take a quiet break for a moment with those you thought you couldn't connect with ever again.  And may you feel the warmth of friendship and love, rather than the pain of loss.  Feel the blessing of love shared.

So my father-in-law is 92 and thinks I make the best shepherd's pie in town.  He's not wrong.  It takes a lot of time, however, so I don't make it very often.  This Sunday I made the effort.  I cut the carrots and the onions, browned the lamb, added the spices, and had the potatoes just waiting to be mashed.  When I walked across the room to the drawer where the masher was, I heard a huge crash.  The glass top of a casserole dish had somehow fallen from the second shelf in the cabinet, bounced off the counter where the finished casserole sat, and landed on the floor exactly where I had been standing 10 seconds earlier.  A tiny piece of the glass top chipped off.  But it was Corningware, and for those of you in the know, the results weren't pretty.  There was glass EVERYWHERE.  On the floor, on the counter, in the sink, under the fridge, and...oh yes...IN the casserole and the potatoes.

My reaction for the first 15 seconds was a string of non-Mary-like language, but by the time I got to second 30 I turned to my husband and my father-in-law and said, "Well, I guess we're going out for pizza."  Remembering to thank my Guardian Angel for not getting a broken foot or a cut from the glass, and actually realizing that we were lucky we could go out for a pizza, off we set.

The revelation for me was that I didn't nurse it, didn't sulk, didn't let it ruin my day, and I really would have expected this to be my reaction because patience isn't one of the gifts God gave me.  There are a lot of surprising things going on in my head since I've retired.  If half of my daily "To Do" list gets addressed, that's enough for me.  If plans get cancelled I just take an extra nap on the couch.  And if people have different beliefs, political or otherwise, I let them.  That's a biggie.

My latest purchase was a flagpole to attach to the wrought iron railing on our front porch.  I change the flag once a week, alternating the Pride flag, the Black Lives Matter flag, and the American flag. Turns out liberals are still citizens, which felt uncertain for a while.  There are no lectures, no eggs thrown at the house, and if anyone has problems with my choices they haven't voiced them.  Neither do I feel a constant need to argue anymore.  Standing up for what is important to me, quietly, seems like a much better thing to do than giving myself an ulcer over debating with people who don't want to hear it.  It's important to me, however, to state my support for some people who don't seem to get a lot of it in my neighborhood or, for that matter, in the world in general.

So I'm either calming down as I age, acquiring wisdom, or just getting tired and running out of steam.  Whatever the cause, the result is a lot easier to live with.  At least for now.

OK, it's been nine months since I retired.  Long enough to have a baby (not that THAT's going to happen, and anyway a full-term pregnancy is 40 weeks, so that would make it ten months if you want to get technical).  Things are not going exactly as planned.  Well, to be honest, there never really was a plan.  Just the end of the pandemic and the end of driving in Boston traffic.  That's pretty much all that I had worked out last July.  I thought that would be enough.  HA!

I have always been interested in acting, and "using my creativity".  I was the first kid in the first grade to shoot a hand up when the teacher wanted something read out loud.  That was my favorite thing.  It still is.  I'm soon (FINALLY) launching my website to work as a professional voice over talent, doing commercials for television or radio, being the voice in the elevator, or that really annoying "Your call is important to us.  Please hold for the next available representative" person.  I've done all the professional training and I'm actually pretty good at it.  There is a fairly cool looking website (professionally done) and people to hold my hand as I embark on this great adventure.  But I find myself making a million and twelve excuses to avoid facing how to use the computer to edit, how to market, or actually going out for an audition.  I am a technophobe.

Most of my excuses are admirable.  I am getting much better at keeping in touch with friends. Lunch times are free now that I'm not gainfully employed.  My father-in-law is almost 92 and addicted to Scrabble, so we usually play at least a game a week and I beat him mercilessly most of the time.  The food around here is getting tastier since there is time for shopping and preparing and cooking.

And then there's my other "hobby".  I do community theater.  At the moment we're in rehearsal for "Peter and the Starcatcher" in which I play, at various times, a pirate, a mermaid, the ship's cat, one half of the ocean (holding a length of blue fabric to simulate waves...someone else has the other end) and Fighting Prawn, a cranky crustacean with an Italian accent who is a very good cook.  Everyone has several roles and we all serve as stage hands, moving pieces of the set here and there.  Rehearsals are between three and four evenings a week and go until roughly ten o'clock.  The last time I was this tired there was at least a baby to show for it.

In summary, I find myself more stressed out than when I was working or when the kids were living at home.  The hours with a cup of tea and a good book haven't materialized.  I play "Wordle" every morning, and a couple of rounds of "Words With Friends".  Google gives me the Question of the Day and if I miss it I go and ask Alexa, who has the same Question of the Day...which I now get right...plus a bonus question for being so smart.  Duo Lingo is the next black hole of time for me, and in the past year I practiced my French so much that I made the top 1% of players IN THE WORLD.  At least now I know the words for "computer" and "cell phone" and all that stuff that didn't exist 49 years ago when I got out of college.  So not a total waste of time.

But I need encouragement and a swift kick in the posterior, please.  Maybe while you're wearing figure skates.  The Great Adventure has sort of begun, but someone has to come up behind me on the high diving board on the deep end of the pool which is life, and give me a fast and hard PUSH!!!

A few weeks ago I groggily staggered down the stairs in search of coffee or tea or anything with caffeine in it that had a chance of helping me claw my way to consciousness.  Halfway down the staircase I paused, having heard the sweet and long missed sound of a bird.  I was very excited and opened my front door only to find the sound got quieter, not louder.  As it turns out I had forgotten I had set an alarm on my cell phone for 6:30AM.  The phone is always left downstairs since I wake up if a bug walks across the lawn, let alone the "ping, ping" of Facebook messages about talking cats.  To say I was disappointed doesn't quite cover it.

​This morning, however, as I lay in bed saying my ever-lengthening prayers for my friends and the world and just for the privilege of waking up, I heard a mourning dove.  And THIS one was coming from the tree outside my window. 

Global warming is no joke, and it's been a very strange winter here in New England and elsewhere.  There has been very little snow on the coast near Boston and yesterday I could have gone out with a decent weight sweatshirt.  The plus side of it (I guess) is that the birds seem to be arriving earlier than usual, too.  It's hard to put into words why I can't stop smiling when I hear them.  I don't own any birds.  I keep them outside in the trees where I feel they belong.  But with each soft, sad coo I am reminded that spring, is indeed, coming.

There have been starlings and pigeons and cardinals and crows and some very brave robins who have hung around all winter, and I am very grateful for them always.  The songbirds, I must admit, have a special place in my heart.  They have the ability to attract my attention the way a squirrel does for a dog.  I am no naturist (is that the one who loves nature or the other word for nudist?  I never remember) but the miracle which is spring shocks and thrills and leaves me gob-smacked every year.  With all the war, the hatred, the natural disasters, the illness and death we have been reading about and which have left us feeling overwhelmed and helpless, I am more than ready to welcome these feathered messengers as they "perch in my soul" bringing joy and a hope that there is still something to celebrate.

It's almost the end of January and my Christmas tree and decorations are all still up.  Oh I know I kept it all up for almost two years during the Pandemic, but this is different.  This is me just being incapable of movement.

It's cold, and now that I'm retired I can sleep late.  The dangers of owning a smart phone are becoming clearer and clearer.  There are so many rabbit holes to fall down.  There's Penny the Talking Cat, and there's Wordle, Scrabble, and Words With Friends.  The next thing I know there are two hours of my life just missing....

If it doesn't get done by noon it's probably not going to get done.  This includes laundry, grocery shopping, piano practice, and writing this blog.  But the BIG thing I find myself avoiding is launching the website for my career as a voice over talent, something I have always wanted and which is scaring the stuffing out of me the closer I get to it.  The creativity of my excuses impresses even me.  Adjusting to life as a retired person is just plain weird.  Having to re-define oneself this late in life was not in my plans.  In case my self-confidence wasn't shaky enough, every so often I look in the bathroom mirror and wonder how my grandmother got into the house without my noticing.

Oh, I am forcing myself to make progress in small ways.  Today I made an appointment to have a "head shot" taken a week from Monday.  I'll probably pray for snow.  But if I don't use it on my website they can always use it at my wake.  I can use it for auditions, too.  Which reminds me, I went up for a part in a local production of "Peter and the Starcatcher" and got it.  I will be the Fighting Prawn (the cranky crustacean), Grempkin (the nasty director of the orphanage), and occasionally a pirate or a mermaid.  Now if that doesn't fill me with feelings of invincibility what will?

Still, changing gears at this age is difficult and frightening.  The cold weather suits my mood, because I feel frozen in place.  It's going to take a bit of bravado to start the actual "next chapter".  The most difficult part is getting out of my own way.  I am, however, blessed with amazing and supportive friends to whom I have given permission to give me a swift kick in the most efficacious spot to get me moving again.

People who were born during the Truman Administration probably shouldn't, generally speaking, wear t-shirts with snappy sayings on them, however I saw one I couldn't (and didn't) resist.  It says in bold white letters on a black background, "I can do ANYTHING.  Except reach the top shelf.  I can't do that" and you know what?  I haven't gotten it yet.  Why?  Because it's on back order.  Apparently I'm not the only one who needs to bolster her courage while acknowledging her limitations.

I don't do resolutions.  At least not on New Year's Day.  I consider myself sort of a "work in progress" throughout the year, and I try to patch and stitch as I go along.  The same things about myself which drove me crazy years ago tend to still haunt me, so it's not as though I don't know what I need to work on.  Every morning I wake up with the best of intentions and some days I manage better than others.  I want to lose weight. I want to keep in touch with all the people I love.  I want to live in a clean house (Hey.  It could happen.)  I want to exercise more and read more and write more and.....no sane human being would expect all that stuff to happen at the same time.  Getting older tends to teach people to cut themselves a little slack, or at least I think it should.

The world isn't perfect.  The weather isn't perfect.  The politicians aren't perfect.  Are we seeing a pattern here?  A standard line of mine has become "If this were perfect we wouldn't need Heaven" and that's glib, but it's true.  Don't expect perfection from the world.  If the world were perfect, if human beings were perfect, where would we get a chance to practice our compassion and love and forgiveness and patience?  The trickiest part of this line of thought is when we have to include ourselves.  It's tough to forgive ourselves for not being perfect.

I hit seventy this year and I'm still struggling to believe in myself and to stick my nose out of my comfort zone  So I'm taking piano lessons once a week.  I took them once before, but told myself I wasn't very good at it and probably never would be, so I stopped.  Big mistake.  I'm trying again, this time with the attitude that I just want to enjoy it.  If I get better (and to my amazement that seems to be happening at least a little), great.  If not, I'll just play when nobody is at home.  And I'll enjoy it.

I've been talking for over a year about launching a career as a voice over actor, and I've had a million excuses on why I haven't "launched" yet.  So today I contacted someone who designs websites for the VO crowd and I'm waiting to hear back.  I hate computers.  I'm terrified of editing out all the extraneous noises that pop up during a recording.  I'm not crazy about staying in my tiny walk-in closet, where I record, for any length of time because it's positively claustrophobic, but I'm determined to do it.

And I keep shelling out money to keep this little blog, even though I hardly ever write these days.  I'm going to try to be better about that, too, because I actually enjoy this once I sit down.  The hard part is sitting down. The things that bring us joy are the things we are good at usually.  And the things we're good at are our gifts.  They don't have to be the best gifts, or the biggest, or the shiniest, or the loudest, or the strongest, or the most famous.  We all have something that makes us smile, that brings peace to that crazy whirling gyroscope inside.  We're supposed to use those gifts.  So let's think about that for a minute.  Maybe this is the year you'll find your gift or nurture the ones you know you have, but have been neglecting.  You deserve that smile.  That quiet space inside 

I'm going to work on that.  But it's not a resolution.  It's a promise.

I haven't been to church in person in a long while.  There have been a few funerals, and I did brave one visit on Ash Wednesday, but outside of that I have been streaming from a safe distance.  I decided it was time, so off I went in person to Saint Cecilia's Church in Boston with Himself and I was overwhelmed.  

This is the Mass I've been watching on line for the past two and a half years, and the pastor is an amazing man, so when someone else came onto the altar I was disappointed at first.  Then it was announced that the pastor had had a sudden death in his family the night before, which was certainly a good reason to not be there.  The homily was wonderful, and Father Peter was just what I needed to hear today.  But before Mass began, a street person, with a knit hat and a shaggy white beard, and all his belongings in a backpack, stopped and decided to join us in our row.  I was less than thrilled.  I was afraid he would smell, (he didn't) and then I felt guilty for the thought.  Jesus was expecting better of me, I'm sure.

​During the homily he started rustling something with cellophane, and I was not outraged, but distracted and a little annoyed.  About three minutes later my husband was poking me.  The gentleman in question had unwrapped one long-stem red rose and passed it to my husband to give to me.  I motioned "For me?" in confusion, and he nodded, so I nodded back in thanks. He stood up, went past us and I whispered my thanks again as he headed to the back of the church. Then I began to think.  

Saint Therese of Lisieux has never been one of my favorites. She died at the age of twenty-four of tuberculosis, but not before she complained about all she had to put up with from her fellow nuns in the convent.  This one fell asleep during prayer or that one snored, and another chewed with her mouth open.  Whatever.  I got the distinct impression, saint or not, I would not have wanted her as a roommate.  She is often known as "The Little Flower" and her signature flower is the rose.  I'm told she makes them pop up in the strangest places.  I wondered if she was in the building. I was feeling challenged in all my not so deeply hidden prejudices.

Being there in person "cracked me open" in ways I wasn't expecting.  The welcome, the people, but most of all the power of being in the Presence was heavy stuff.  There's been a lot I've been missing while dealing with the remnants of the pandemic.  So I'll be back again (still wearing my mask, of course) and trying to be more open to new thoughts and feelings and the odd rose that comes my way.  Life is full of surprises.

It's not just the passing of Queen Elizabeth II, although I've always had a weird fondness for England and for her.  She became Queen the year I was born.  I'm not unaware of the controvery of British history and colonozation, and I'm not unsympathetic at all.  But this woman has been a thread running through the entire tapestry of my seventy years and I feel the loss in a surprising way.

Yesterday was also the birthday of a friend of mine whom I don't call often enough.  I called to sing "Happy Birthday" and got a recorded telephone company message that they couldn't complete my call.  My tech-savvy son was with me and offered to help find his new number, thinking he had changed phones.  Instead he discovered my friend's obituary.  He had passed away suddenly in June.  The combination of losses in two days is proving challenging.

I'm still figuring out what life "in retirement" means, and I'm not convinced that I like it.  The unavoidable side-effects of aging, besides feeling like an envelope without an address, include saying goodbye to an alarming number of friends.  My morning prayers, which cover friends on both side of the Great Divide, get longer and longer.  As I recall the names of all the wonderful people God has blessed me with in my life and has seen fit to call back, I see their faces for a brief moment, and it doesn't rip the scab off the wound, but it picks away at the edges.  September is a minefield of memories for me, and it doesn't help that the seasons are changing and my life is changing at the same time.  It would appear that mortality is not a rumor.

Slowly it is dawning on me that I really don't have all the time in the world to do all the things I think I want to do.  This, unsurprisingly, includes tossing bags and boxes of stuff and living in a peaceful, uncluttered "zen" space.  I mean, it would be nice, but instead I find myself playing word games on my phone or scrolling through a series of articles about which I care very little.  I have started taking piano lessons once a week and that's a definite bright spot, but I need to write more and walk more (while I can) and visit more people who define the word "love" for me.  And travel.  I want to travel again.  We've gone pretty much nowhere since Covid began and my heart is longing to see Wales, and maybe Italy.  Oh yes, I've been teaching myself Italian on Duo Lingo.  More phone time.  And gaining back some of the weight I lost while working from home.  I don't know how all this fits together.  In fact I'm discovering I don't know much of anything I thought I knew.  

My long chats with the Deity are scattered throughout the day, but I, who always loved going to Church, either watch it on my computer or don't remember at all.  It started with Covid, but now I find myself getting very fussy about my soul.  Not every Joe Schmoe is going to get an invitation to guide me spiritually.  I want to go back to church, but I'm still wearing a mask.  Numbers go up.  Numbers go down.  I've had all my shots and intend to get anything that's offered.  Better to play it safe.  Also, my heart seems to be someplace else these days.  It's not all about Covid.  It's mostly about me.

I'm not missing the office.  As I wandered through the almost completely empty floors I started saying out loud "This does not spark joy" (thank you, Marie Kondo) and it was true.  The world has changed in more ways than I am currently capable of handling and I don't know what to do about it.

My standard smart remark to people complaining about the end of the status quo is usually, "The only one who likes change is a baby with a dirty diaper" and that, I believe is a fact.  I am trying to 
learn from all this, and in keeping with the teachings of the Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron, "lean into the discomfort" rather than run away from it.  What is it that I'm afraid of?  What is it that I really want to do?  What is it that I am here to accomplish, (because I believe we all have a job down here)?  I just don't know.  But I'm working on it.

Today is my first day of retirement.  Being unsure of what I was expecting, it's hard to decide if I like it or not yet.  I went for a walk at 6:30 this morning.  That's different.  There were wild turkeys munching on lawns, something I never got to see much of before as I zoomed by on my way to the highway.

I've been careful about what I'm eating, because I KNOW that could be an issue, but so far so good.  Of course it isn't noon here yet.  And there is a list of what I think my schedule should be.  It includes creativity in the morning (writing, meditating, walking) and at least for today, being a total slug in the afternoon.  I'm thinking reading and napping.  Or errands maybe?  There should be a handbook for this.

So much of how we view ourselves is wrapped up in what we do for a paycheck.  Now there are plans for me in the not too distant future to start doing some voice over work, but right now I feel like an envelope without an address.  My dear friend Jim Flanagan always told me, "Be a human BEING, not a human DOING" and he had a point.  It's hard to slow down long enough for our thoughts to catch up to us.  Or our souls.  Sitting quietly is a lot tougher than I thought it would be.

Yesterday we had a professional family photo session.  Son Number One is home from San Francisco for a few more days, so that's mixing it up.  Even so I feel strange.  I have to figure out from step one how my days look.  Visits to friends?  To the library? I don't want to go to the mall, but then I never really did.  It's just too new. Furthermore, Himself is a good three years or more from retirement, so there's that "guilt thing" I feel about not just throwing myself into housework and making meals.  But THAT ain't gonna happen.  I want more out of this.

So watch this space and send any helpful comments or suggestions.  Because for just this moment, I seem to be having a bit of trouble switching gears. 

Like everyone else on Planet Earth I am sick to death of Covid, winter, Vladimir Putin and a few other things I won't go into here.  The past two years have aged me.  I lost some weight and found out where the wrinkles were hiding (under the fat), I lost some friends and had to learn all over again how to deal with grief and still put one foot in front of the other.  And now I am aching for the people of Ukraine, a place I've never been to, and am ashamed to say that I don't know a lot about, but they are taking up a lot of heart and head space today.

The world feels, and is, very fragile.  People are being hit by rockets in their homes.  Mothers are sewing labels into their children's clothes, listing their blood type.  Of course there are also the instances of people my age and younger just dying, not even from Covid, but just dying with no warning, because life has never been perfect or predictable here and it never will be.  If it were we wouldn't need Heaven.  And dear Lord, how I need Heaven!

There's a wake today for one of my college professors.  He passed away at 91, which you might think would be enough, but we all wanted more time with him because he was amazing.  He has listed me as one of his pallbearers at the funeral tomorrow, a great honor, but a very sobering duty.
Himself and I have often taken this dear man to dinner, and had dinner at his home in happier days.  I was once with him when he sideswiped a parked car and kept going.  He was 90. What was I supposed to do?  Luckily we, unlike many, got a chance to stand by his deathbed and say goodbye before they had to increase the morphine to ease his pain.  He's home free now.  My two sons, both in their twenties, are not.  I wonder if they will get the chance to have a career, a family, a life, or if the whole world will explode before they get the chance.  This is not a fun thought for a mother to entertain.  It could, however, be reality.  

Like other things about which I cannot do squat, I will place it in the hands of God who has told us over and over again "Don't worry.  I've got this. I've got you."  I do believe that, but I'm still having trouble sleeping, or finding the energy to do anything like writing, or reading, or cooking dinner.  Because I am a human. My bone marrow is sad.  Today it goes that deep.  

Fight on.  Spring is coming.  Hope is coming.  I think I have fallen in love with the President of the Ukraine, whose name I could not have told you two weeks ago.  After two years (make that five) of division and hatred and ugliness beyond description in this country and elsewhere, perhaps this universally scary situation will make us realize that we are all, in the final analysis, just people from different places, with different colors, and different religions, and different ideas, walking one another home.  

I have no idea how to approach the New Year.  There's a bit of relief, because for all of its challenges, 2021 actually WAS better than 2020.  At least we had vaccines and a chance to reconnect with family and friends, although we're still not traveling and we're still not entirely sure when we will.  But all this time apart has taught some interesting lessons.  I find I'm getting more patient and less judgemental, not because I am so wonderful...I'm just so tired!  Being in a state of constant depression or loneliness or fear is too exhausting to maintain.

My children came home for Christmas, which made this year infinitely happier for me.  But they've popped back to their own worlds (as they should) and their rooms are empty and frankly, I don't know what to do with myself. I've gone back to work, although I've managed to arrange for two days a week working from home and three days in the office.  I was paralyzed by the prospect of traffic on the Expressway at rush hour, but I now listen to audio books as I drive, and instead of getting upset over a slow commute I think "Oh goodie! Another chapter!" so that's a good thing.  I taught myself Italian online via Duo Lingo. I think I'm up to day 567 or something.  I've cut a demo to do voiceover work, which is something I've been meaning to do but never gotten around to for the last 40 years or so.  It's been a productive, if stinky, period of history I guess.

But in the past week we've lost Betty White and Desmond Tutu.  Mortality is not a rumor. And somewhere along the line I've stopped worrying about it.  I mean, as far as I know the only way to get into Heaven is to die, so I can't have it both ways, and I'm OK with that. I guess my only plan for 2022 is to pay attention to it all, to listen for the return of the birds in about a month and  a half or so, to find as many things funny as I can, and to be kind.  We need more kindness out there.  Nothing else works.

The days are officially getting longer.  Breathe in.  Breathe out.  Be patient with yourself and with others. And while you're at it, have a happy and (please God) healthy new year.  Find something to be positive about.  Then share it with the rest of us.

OK.  We all know how well I do on computers.  If Himself were not the Master of All Internet Knowledge I would have lost my job and most of my friends years ago.  But I will confess that the 21st Century occasionally redeems itself.

For example, one of the things which has been on my "to do" list since rocks were soft and the surface of the Earth was cooling was to look into becoming a voice over actor.  That's one of the reasons I've been maintaining radio silence around here lately.  I've been taking coaching via Zoom and am about to make my demo recording, which is really an exciting idea to me.  But in the process I became friends with my technique coach who lives in Canada.  She's a wonderful coach and a talented voice actor herself, but I also discovered in the chats before and after our sessions that she is a spiritual, kind, intelligent, and generally wonderful human being.  Now that we don't have sessions anymore sometimes we will "Zoom" with a glass of wine in hand just to keep in touch.  And I cannot wait for the Plague to end so I can go to Canada and meet her in person. Which brings me to the question, "What is friendship in the age of the Internet?"  If it's the connection of one spirit to another then it is quite possible to find and nurture real friendships without breathing the same air.  It is emotional support and a safe place to vent.  It is a "new home" for our innermost self.  

I have another friend whom I have never met, who lives in Oregon.  She's an Episcopalian priest, and while we have a friend in common, we never got around to meeting in person before she moved to the wrong side of the country where the sun sets into the ocean instead of rising up out of it the way it is supposed to.  We don't "face time" per se, but I keep track of her postings on Facebook and I am often nourished by what she shares.  We'll text once in a while, and although we don't know each other well, I feel closer to her than I do to many people whom I see in person and have known for years.  

It's been a blessing to be able to see my children during the pandemic, even though one is out in San Francisco (where the sun also sets into the ocean) and it took us two hours to open our Christmas presents online this year.  Yet we felt present.  To see a face I love, to hear a voice in real time is a grace and a gift.  Maybe that's what the Internet is really for.  Not for politics and making mean comments about the people who shop at Wal-Mart.  I reply less and less to people I don't know.  I no longer volunteer information about my favorite color or what kind of tree I would be.  Those just give the hackers ammunition.  But to touch base with wonderful people, not all of whom I've been lucky enough to hug, that's not such a bad thing.  

Be nice to everyone out there.  Wear your masks. Don't let your guard down.  And don't forget to send buckets of positive energy into the Universe every day.  We're all just taking a ride on The Big Blue Marble.  

It's almost spring again.  One year ago tomorrow I left my office for the last time and have been sitting hunched over my computer in front of the ever-present Christmas tree ever since.  As we start into another spring I ask myself how I've changed.

First, I fully acknowledge that we've had it easier than most.  Although Himself was out of work for months at the beginning, he landed a job, and mine has been steady (if not always riveting).  I didn't think I'd make it through Christmas without my sons for the first time ever, but I did and it took us two hours for everyone to open their presents on a Zoom chat.  I went from political fury and fear, to exhaustion and then elation as Mr. Trump left the building.  I was horrified at the state in which he left the country, but we're working on it.

I've done more writing than I've done in a long while, and I finally figured out how to fit reading into my schedule for a delightful escape from reality.  I've dropped an additional 15 pounds for a total of 30.  I've made peace with the wrinkles which were hiding under the fat.  We now look "our age". 

Since going out to dinner became a thing of the past (see above weight loss for an indication of how much a part of our lives THAT was) we have both learned to cook healthful and tasty meals at home.  He's better at it than I am, but I sing better than he does, so we each have our niche.

Prayer, always a part of my day, has been getting a lot more of my time, but it's become a lot quieter and less panicked than it used to be.  It's more like sitting in the presence of a friend who is so close that words aren't a necesary form of exchange anymore.  And I've realized how much I have and how little I need to get by.

I desperately miss many people, particularly my children, and I cannot wait for the first hug.  There will be tears and tissues.  We've been in touch via the internet, but it's not the same.  No need to tell you that.  We've all been through that.  And I'm surprised at the people I have not missed at all.  My patience for willful ignorance has sunk to zero and I refuse to waste my time trying to convince others of my point of view if they want to get all their information from Facebook and Fox.  My filters seem to have been a victim of the pandemic.  I say what I want how I want and if you don't like it you don't have to listen.  Actually, now that I think of it, this, I suspect, is a function of being over 65 rather than a symptom of the pandemic.

I have done more reading and thinking about racial injustice than I have in my life.  The conversations are often uncomfortable and I feel completely inadequate to the task.  My privilige is obvious even to me.  Yet I will make peace with "squirming" until my heart grows large enough and brave enough to shine a bright light into the dark corners that exist somewhere inside me because of the world in which I grew up.  And I will learn to listen.  I've already learned to care. And to hope in a kinder, more welcoming world for everyone, regardless of race, sexual orientation or identity, or even (God help me) political perspective.

Above all, I have realized how important it is to be kind and how many people put no value on it at all.  It's so easy, and the returns are so satisfying.  We are all so fragile these days in many ways (although we've become much stronger in other ways).  We all need some gentle words and some indication that we are not alone.  That someone is watching and caring what happens to us.

So it hasn't been a total bust for me.  We've lost a few relatives, but I've also been thinking quite a bit about death and have come to the conclusion that it's a part of life and I'm not afraid of it.  It just is.  Again, I've been embarrassingly lucky through no virtue of my own, and I know that.   I am not the person I was one year ago.  Some aspects of myself have been stripped away, and others have grown a life of their own.  As we get ready to emerge from our collective cocoons I'm hoping for butterfly wings and a gratitude that does not forget the lessons learned. And I'll still wear my mask for the foreseeable future.  It shows love for other people.  And it hides the wrinkles.

Spoiler alert:  America is not perfect.  It never has been.  The last few years, and especially the last weeks, have made that more obvious than ever.  It's unfortunate that we've had so many reminders of that in the midst of a pandemic which has stretched every last nerve to the breaking point for so many people.  Martin Luther King Day is a good time to remember the demonstrations of last summer.  I say "demonstrations", not "riots" because the majority of them were peaceful and the reasons for them were sound and overwhelming.  A disproportionate number of people of color are dying not only because of the pandemic, but also from the real disease of this country, racism.  Some (please note, not all) "bad cops" have been involved.  But the everyday putdowns, devaluation, and dismissal of people based on the color of their skin has been growing like a tumor, unseen and ignored for too long, even when we knew it was there.  Maybe because many people of all colors were home and glued to their televisions to witness the pain, the message might have been brought to the consciousness of a few more people than usual.  Admittedly, this revelation hasn't been accepted by everyone, but we have more people trying to understand.  And hopefully, having the grace to acknowledge and to be embarrassed by much of our history.

To my horror, the ugliness under the surface is not limited to racism.  We also saw the results of poor education, limited economic opportunites, and frustration on the part of a lot of Trump's supporters.  When wealth tried to take the place of God in this country workers were hurt instead of helped by automation.  Jobs were sent overseas to people who  were willing to work for an inexcusable wage.  As jobs were lost and opportunities blocked, a large number of people nursed their anger and blamed the wrong people.  The immigrants who came and worked menial jobs were as taken advantage of as those whom they replaced.  The anger should have been directed at the CEO's and the Congress who allowed this disgrace.  It was bound to erupt and it did, although it took many of us by surprise or even shock.  We were fools not to see this coming. We were too comfortable in our own bubbles.  We had forgotten how to be kind, just as others had forgotten what kindness felt like.

I pray every morning for a peaceful transition of power.  I prayed for the defeat of President Trump as well, because in addition to what professionals have called certain mental illness, it was obvious that he was being used to fan the flames.  He has become a symbol of how truly frightening things can get.  I don't expect Mr. Biden to be perfect.  He will make mistakes and we will let him know when he does.  But I do believe he will show an acceptance of all people that we have not seen in a long time.  It's time for the "Us" vs. "Them" rhetoric to stop.  It's time to be the UNITED States again.  And it's time to work on making the playing field even for all American people, the ones of every color who were born here, the ones who have come here seeking liberty and opportunity, and the ones from whom the land was stolen in the first place.

We've never gotten it completely right.  We never will.  That's what Heaven's for.  But while we're here we need to try, and to try very hard to make progress.  Life is difficult enough for us all, and it's more difficult for too many.  For people with disabilities, for people with low incomes, for people with a different sexual preference from ours, for people with the lingering pain of abuse.  The list goes on.  Our main job is to help one another get through it.  

Spring is coming.  The vaccines are being distributed.  We can start to help one another by believing in the science that tells us to wear a mask every time we leave the house, and to keep our social distance.  Start small but let us give our hearts a chance to expand. Every day we wake up we have the gift of another opportunity to make a difference.  Like Doctor King, we can have a dream, too.  And like him, we must be willing to work and sacrifice for it.

"Ring the bells that still can ring.  Forget your perfect offering.
 There is a crack, a crack in everything.
 That's how the light gets in."   
​                                             - Leonard Cohen

​

All the turkeys in my area can breathe a little easier.  I won't be cooking you this year.  There will be no big celebration around the table.  I'm not inviting any guests. Not even our sons. It will be just the two of us and we'll make something nice, but not a turkey.  Every day during this eight month (so far) nightmare has been a "thanksgiving".  I wake up every morning and count my blessings before my feet hit the floor.  The first blessing is waking up, of course, and then there's the litany of the people who make my life worth living, both family and friends.  Then I'm grateful that so far I haven't lost any of them this year, because I realize many people have not been that lucky.  

This morning I've been thinking about how many times in the Bible Jesus has said, "Those who have ears should listen."  I always thought that was a little strange.  This year, in a very big way, I finally get it.  There are people who actually DON'T have ears.  They CAN'T understand.  They cannot process what is said over and over and over.  In this case, it's "MASKS SAVE LIVES" and "KEEP YOUR DISTANCE". 

I have been told "Well, I for one, refuse to live in fear!" as if that were something to be very proud of.  I don't live in fear.  I live in science.  But living in fear really isn't the worst idea when over a quarter of a million Americans are dead from COVID.  Maybe we should all be living in fear.  We don't seem to be capable of "living in sanity" or "living in patience".   How can people still be dismissive of this virus when we as a nation have lost that many people?  When the world has lost so many more?
What will it take to convince us?

I am as depressed and exhausted as anybody (except the amazing people who are actually on the front lines in the hospitals dealing with this situation, of course).  As the virus gets worse and comes back harder than ever, I realize that I'll be making the same decision at Christmas as I made for Thanksgiving.  It is the only rational thing to do until we get the vaccine.  It's more important than your sister's birthday (or funeral, for that matter), or the wedding, or the 50th high school reunion.  All of that can wait.  If we get it wrong at this moment, however, there will be no more birthdays, or weddings or reunions.  No grandchildren's visits.  No trips to the Cape.  None of it.  Is it really worth it?  Can we not suck it up for a few more months?

My Christmas tree, currently adorned with autumn leaves, will be up until I can celebrate with my two sons.  If that's July, then I'll just clean around it for another few months (or let the dust accumulate, which is much more likely).  Thanksgiving will be a quiet day to give thanks, not make the shopping list for the next morning's shopping frenzy.  Christmas will be a quiet time to think about the birth of Jesus.  Or if you're not Christian, or even if you're an atheist, to think about what actually matters in your life.  It seems none of us spend enough time doing that.

Wear the masks.  Double them up when you're at the supermarket.  And if you decide to gather with your family or friends on these days, I won't judge you.  Really.  But I will worry.  And so should you.

OK.  Not only do I (clever woman that I am) wear a mask each and every time I leave the house no matter where I'm going, even if I have no chance of bumping into anyone, now I'm also wearing a mask all night.  After a "sleep test" it was announced by my doctor that I have a "mild sleep apnea" and it was only waking me up about 38 times a night.  So we're doing the CPAP thing which is really hard to get used to, unattractive, exceedingly unromantic, and not a little scary.  When I get up for the nightly trot down the hall I detach myself from my hose and toddle off.  It's fine until I go to wash my hands and am confronted in the mirror with a space alien where my face should be.  2020 continues to dazzle with its Machiavellian sense of humor.

I'll get used to it.  We all are getting used to all sorts of things these days.  But I'm not loving it.  Nor am I loving the wrinkles that have appeared since I've dropped an additional ten pounds since the lockdown started.  I know, I know.  You're jealous.  Don't be. It's largely because I spend my days hunched over my computer like Quasimodo and forget to get up and walk around, much less snack.  I'm sure the missing pounds will find me.  I will confess, however, that I have never felt old before, and I'm beginning to.  It doesn't have much to do with numbers.  I think it has more to do with "numbness".  This has been a long haul, Peeps, with no real end in sight.

At least there is some hope of things calming down politically on a national level once we admit we have had a valid election.  People can start speaking to people with differing opinions again, and maybe even listen when the other person speaks, without drawing a sword or assuming a Kung Fu Battle Stance.  We can learn to "play nice" as I used to tell my kids.  So that's good.  And the weather has been lovely. I like nice weather.  The unchanging level of danger from the virus for the immediate future still hangs like an ominous cloud overhead and will for quite a while yet.  I am lucky that it has been boring me.  So many others don't have the luxury of boredom.  They work in danger, they grieve for loved ones, they suffer the effects of the virus itself.

So I'm dealing with it, and have pretty much resigned myself to the idea of Thanksgiving and Christmas for two, and can think about it without getting teary-eyed and hysterical.  It just is.  I wish it weren't, but there you are.

Meanwhile, in this not entirely self-imposed isolation my thinking is changing about a lot of things.  I am grateful for the WhatsApp and Zoom and even "Go To Meeting".  It's important to be able to see faces (without masks on them).  I'm discovering how few things I need to get by.  And how precious friends and family are to me.  Even the ones who haven't shared my opinions for a while.  

So continue to keep socially distant, wash your hands, and wear your mask.  Let's make this stupid virus retreat.  I have a Venetian Carnival mask a friend brought back for me from Italy about 40 years ago.  Maybe I'll team it up with my mouth and nose covering mask for a little variety.  The sequins and feathers will give my neighbors in the supermarket something interesting to talk about besides my Christmas tree (still lit since March).  It would certainly liven things up.  Or maybe I'll just dust off my cape and go full-out Zorro.  Because why not.

Be nice out there.  Be a little crazy if it makes you feel better.  And take down the barbed wire that's been around your heart and be gentle with everyone you meet. We're at war with COVID, not each other.  And everyone has been suffering.

Peace!

So the COVID Crazies are upon us.  My hair is blue, and I wore the tiara all day because....well, why not?  Behind me is the Christmas tree (since March 11) which I have now decorated with garlands of silk autumn leaves.  Every night I light it and every night the neighbors walk by and shake their heads.  It's nice to have a ritual.

As we enter the increasingly short days and increasingly long and gloomy nights it is becoming more and more of a strain to keep my (and everyone else's) spirits from making a beeline for the center of the Earth.  I have even (horrors!) begun de-cluttering my house for the first time in going on never mind how many years.  It is oddly satisfying, I must admit, to watch the floor reappear in a different room each week.  I've missed them so. It does get old after a while when most Saturdays are consumed with trying to fill the trash bins but it's nice to see results, and I don't have to leave the house to get that little thrill.  In fact, if I leave the house there IS no little thrill because I come back to the same mess I left.  You know what I mean.

I have been calming down in the past few weeks, which is very surprising to me considering the political circus and dearth of good news.  There have even been faint hints of wanting to write poetry, something I haven't done in a long time.  Mindfulness is becoming my mantra.  Since there is no knowing what is coming down the road at us, I am trying very hard to be present in this moment.  I miss people and things and experiences and adventures, but I breathe in and breathe out and give my heart a chance to speak its word.  Usually that gets lost in the hubbub which is "normal life".  This quiet time is not all bad.  At least not for me.  Not that I want it to go on for a whole lot longer,  or that I don't realize how difficult and painful it has been for so many, but I am trying my best to find something in it for which to be grateful.

That said, take a breath, have a cup of tea, put up your Christmas tree if you want to amuse your neighbors, and remember that nothing, not even this virus and this year, can go on forever.  Try to be mindful of the people whose spirits are lower than yours.  As long as we don't all have our breakdowns on the same day, we're going to be fine.

OK.  I'll admit it.  The running thing didn't last very long. and as Autumn progresses I find it harder to even make myself go for a walk.  There have been many too many days when I haven't left the house or wanted to, even when the weather has been lovely.

I have poked my nose out of the bunker to visit with a (very) few select friends.  I wear my mask and I sit six feet away.  Then I take off my mask to drink my perfect martini (thank you, Cathleen) and to nibble on a little something and to revel in the sheer joy and weirdness of being in the presence of real, live people.  There is a fire pit and wonderful conversation and I'm going to be so sad when it ends because of snow.  I will be there, however, on November 4 to dance around the firepit (masked) and to pop a bottle of something sparkly.  I expect to have a reason to do this.

​But select moments of joy notwithstanding, the world is just getting too strange for me.  The muse is apparently on holiday somewhere and has not whispered in my ear in a very long time.  The church pew still has not had my dwindling posterior plopped upon it, and I'm sure others have taken over "my spot".  My hair, which has fortunately been silver for quite a while now, is currently longer than it's been since my senior year of college.  It was last cut in February.  My dentist hygienist was dressed like an extra from "Alien" when I had my teeth cleaned, and I appreciated that, but generally speaking, I'm keeping a low profile.

Doctor Fauci Bobblehead has been promoted from the kitchen table to the fireplace mantel, next to my "desk".  It gets lonely out here.  This will not last forever.  It feels like forever, but it won't. Yet we have to keep our guard up now more than ever.  This impossibly weird year of isolation and sickness, of violence and anger, of racism and division will end.  We will get the vaccine.  We will be able to eat out and hug grandchildren and have coffee with friends.  We will have a new idea of what constitutes "normal" and we will (I hope) not take so very much for granted anymore.  Our job for now is to stay away from one another, to wear our masks and wash our hands and to remain grateful to all the front line team out there, the nurses, the doctors, the police, the EMTs, the grocery cashiers, the postal carriers, all of them.

It is also our "job" to try to keep up our spirit and that of those around us.  To "fake it until we make it" if necessary.  It has been exhausting and it's hard, but it's not over.  And we don't quit when we are tired.  We quit when we are done.  Meanwhile I'll be over here by this wall, banging my head just a little.  Not enough to knock myself out, but enough to express our joint feelings about 2020.  Doctor Fauci nods his head in agreement.

My husband has been running for years.  He is a foot taller than I am, almost eight years younger than I am, and I outweigh him by at least ten pounds.  He does marathons (including eight Bostons) and I am Cheerleader-In-Chief.  That's the way it's always been, and I've been pretty comfy with it.

Somehow in the last week or so the cumulative effect of sitting over my computer like the Hunchback of Notre Dame has flicked some switch inside me, so I went for a walk.  I just wanted to stretch.  Really.  But I found myself going from a fairly decent walking pace to jogging and I'm not sure what went wrong.  The scariest part about this is that I rather enjoyed it, so I did it the next day, too.  And the next.  In the past seven days I've run six times, each time around two miles.  The astonishment I feel at not having to stop and gasp at the end of every second driveway is truly mind-bending.  I have tried running before and the internal monologue usually went "OK.  Just to that light pole and then we can sit on that bench in the shade."  But I've been running pretty far without stopping.  Don't tell anyone, but there have also been a few hills involved.  My image is shattered.

The picture of the elegant silver-haired, smiling runner above is not me, by the way.  I don't look anywhere near that happy while I'm chugging along.  Nevertheless, I am pretty pleased with myself.  I bring my mask in case I run into people (because I am a responsible person who believes in science) but I seldom have to put it on because people take one look and give me a wide berth.  Then one day I had what Oprah calls an "aha moment".  It was easier to run because although I am older than the last time I tried this, I'm also twenty-five or so pounds lighter.  During the enforced time at home, along with learning Italian on DuoLingo, I have also finally been paying some attention to the Weight Watcher suggestions I've been paying for and ignoring for years.  It was an effort to feel in control of something, ANYTHING, in a world that suddenly felt very out of control.  There is so much going on that I can't do a thing about, so I'm picking my tiny battles and every now and then I win one.  

I make no vows here.  I have zero interest in doing a marathon, a half-marathon, a 5K, or pretty much anything else that involves people.  Running at my own pace with my own thoughts is a pleasant little diversion and I'm good with that.  For now.  It could all end tomorrow and the inspiration fairy or a twisted ankle could pull me down off this smug little "high" I'm on.  But for right now, for the first time in months, I am feeling empowered.  How about that?  

In the wonderful musical "Gigi" Maurice Chevalier sits at a table with Hermione Gingold and sings a song at which I used to bristle.  The song is "I'm Glad I'm Not Young Anymore", and I thought it was defeatist and sad.  Guess what.  Now that I'm there, my attitude has decidedly changed.

Once upon a time I assumed I'd be retired at my age and sitting on the porch reading all the time, or doing volunteer work somewhere, or finding a "cute" hobby.  None of those things has happened.  During the pandemic I have appreciated having some sort of structure to my day.  Of course, that means sitting in front of the fireplace for hours at a time, hunched over my (well...the office's) keyboard.  Lately it's been dozens of Go To Meetings a week and trying to make my tri-focals work on a spreadsheet the size of Cleveland, but things will calm down again.  

Meanwhile, I was getting tired of being constantly afraid of the virus, and the politics, and the rudeness and insensitivity of people.  So I stopped. Being young these days has no appeal for me.  My sons have both graduated from fine colleges (well...one's still in a PhD program, but it's coming in May), and have a spirit of adventure.  They've each packed (in days "BC", "Before COVID") and taken off for Europe for a week or two with nothing but the clothes in their backpack and an open mind and heart.  In my wildest days I would NEVER have dreamed of doing that.  Hostels?  Are you kidding me??  But now I'm so glad they did while they had the chance.  The future of the planet, politically and ecologically, is looking rocky on a good day.  I try to have faith in the upcoming generations to dig us out on both counts, and I am encouraged, but I don't envy them the job. 

This is where the "age" thing comes in.  I have finally figured out what I can and cannot change.  I can't save the world single-handedly, but I raised two very fine young men who will likely make a dent in it.  I have accepted the odd ache and twinge as part of the privilege of having hung around for so long.  Too many of my relatives and friends didn't get the chance.  There are some things I can change. I do not, for example, accept the stereotype of what a person my age is supposed to do or wear or think or feel.  Which is partly why I'm sharing a picture of myself with purple hair.  Because why not?  It will wash out tomorrow, but I might make it blue or green or pink then, depending on my mood.  I can change how much care I give to my body which, in spite of all odds, continues to carry me through time and space.  I take it walking a lot more often now.  I feed it better.  I try to give it more sleep, but that might be on the list of things I can't change.  We'll see.  During this weird time in seclusion I have dropped close to ten pounds.  More needs to go, but my knees no longer greet me in the morning with "the song of their people".  Little victories.

It is a gift to be old enough to know when to ride the horse and carry the flaming sword, and when to sit and listen instead.  What an awakening it has been to find out how much I don't know about so many topics.  I am humbled, but also grateful.  A calm spot has been growing in the center of my being where God and I chat.  Well, actually, I try to spend more time just being quiet and listening for whatever S/He wants to say.  There's power there, and it is something I would never have thought of at twenty or thirty or forty or...well, you get the picture.

Lastly, death no longer frightens me.  While my heart still breaks every time I have to say goodbye to someone who has been sent into my life, I have also begun to make peace with the fact that death is part of life.  My friend David, a gentleman in his 80's who lives in Mold,  North Wales, lost his wife last year.  When I miss a phone call, he sometimes ends the messsage  with "Greetings from Mold and the Realms of Gold" and when I get a card it is sent "with love from David and the Promoted Partner".  What a fabulous way to look at that.  What a cool way to keep our loved ones present.

So, while I'm in no hurry to greet my "Advance Team" as I call my dearly departed, neither am I terrified at the prospect.  As the unbearably corny saying goes, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today is a gift.  That's why it's called 'the present."  I hope you find a way to enjoy each day you unwrap, no matter what it holds.