Shipping was Good

A thought finally emerges. I type it out before I lose it. It’s terrible. Delete. I type again. Nope—God awful—delete again. Trite, dull, cliché. I check the thesaurus for better descriptions of how I feel about my writing lately: stale, threadbare, dime-store, cornball. Yup—they all pretty much sum it up. If I do manage to write a decent sentence, I’ve probably already said it—and most likely more than once.

My phone dings. Sweet relief. Someone is texting me asking about piano lessons. YES! I can distract myself for another few minutes. I exchange pleasantries with a former student who now wants her five-year old to start lessons. I’ve finally reached the point in my career where I’ve become the musical grandmother to the children of my past students. I email her my studio policy information, which takes less than three minutes. Back to it, Jess!

My cushy lap desk

I arrange the huge pillow desk I’ve recently purchased on Amazon so I can sit comfortably on my couch and write. I told myself that I wasn’t writing because I wasn’t comfortable sitting at my desk, and if I’m not careful, my sciatica will flare up again. This special $60 pillow was just the thing I needed to get back to being consistent with my writing. And it must be working because I’m currently writing this post. But now my back is starting to hurt. It must be the damn couch—it’s so uncomfortable—and ugly, too. I should probably buy a new couch. If I had a better couch, I’m sure I’d write more frequently.

For another distraction I check Amazon for any new reviews on my novel. Someone has left me a three-star review—which is not even a bad rating, really. I’ll take a three-star over a one-star anytime. This person writes: “Didn’t like the story. But shipping of book was good.” I mean, who writes that? They don’t recommend the book, but if you’re going to buy it, you will really enjoy the shipping part! If I read a book I don’t care for, I never intentionally give the author a bad review—I just don’t recommend that book to anyone. It’s already a given that authors are chock full of self-doubt and insecurity, not to mention constantly beating themselves up over their work—why twist the knife?

No room for more plants

I check the time. It’s still early enough to get to the nursery to buy flowers to plant this weekend. If I go now, there still might be some good stuff left. Noooo! There’s no room left to plant anything anyway. But then again, I did just recently become a member of the local botanical garden, which gives me a five percent discount on all plant purchases. I’ll just go look to see if they have anything new. Jess, stop it right now.

What should I have for lunch today? There’s leftover homemade albóndigas soup in the fridge but I ate two heaping bowls for lunch and dinner yesterday and should probably make a salad. Or maybe I’ll order something on Door Dash. No, wait—way too expensive. Luckily, my husband just called and wants to go out to dinner tonight. Now I’ve got to figure out a restaurant and make a reservation because he’s “working.” Bless his heart. That should kill at least another 10 to fifteen minutes.

Or maybe I’ll just finish this blog post and then actually get back to work on my shitty first draft of my second novel. The writing will no undoubtedly sound vapid and predictable, but at least there will be something, and a start is better than nothing. I can always fix it later.

And in a year or two it will turn out to be good enough so that the person who buys it will not only enjoy the shipping experience, but maybe the book as well.

Or skip the whole shipping part and visit your local Indy bookstore. Their shipping is really good.

 

Other People’s Feelings

Taking on the burden of feeling other people’s feelings can be overwhelming. Unfortunately, I’m so good at it that I can get into people’s heads and feel the emotions they don’t necessarily know they’re feeling. Call me an empath, or maybe just super sensitive—either way, if you’ve got feelings, I’m there, feeling them right along with you, even if I’m just imagining them.

In first grade, I distinctly remember standing in the lunch line, my stomach growling with ravenous hunger because I had maybe two bites of cheerios before I hurriedly left the house to run to school. This was back in the late sixties when it cost a mere forty cents for a complete lunch, including a side of fruit cocktail (with a maraschino cherry) and a bright orange waxy carton of milk. And by God, those lunches were the most delectable meals on the planet. I’m practically drooling right now as I remember the spaghetti with meat sauce with warm, buttered French bread, or the hamburger with the salty chunk of roast potato that came on the side. Don’t get me started on the vanilla ice cream sandwiches for only a dime! Those lunches were like a religious experience for me, and so superior to the wax paper-wrapped bologna sandwich, stale Wheat Thins and sliced Jicama that my mother hurriedly shoved in a paper bag before she went back to bed.

As I waited expectantly in line for my hot, delicious lunch, the boy ahead of me in line turned toward me, his face in repose. Looking back on it, I’m sure he was perfectly fine—he was probably just daydreaming or something. But at that moment he looked so utterly sad that my heart ached for him. As my eyes filled up with tears, I began to make up a story in my mind that this boy’s life was somehow so utterly tragic, that it was my responsibility to save him.

But before I could come up with a plan to make his world all right again, the lunch lady pulled me aside. Dabbing my wet cheeks with a crumpled tissue pulled from her apron pocket, she patted my head and gently guided me back into the line. I was soon distracted by my glorious lunch served on a sectional peach-colored plastic tray, and promptly lost sight of the boy. At six, I had no idea then how big a role food would play in distracting me from feeling my emotions.

When I was a teenager, and my dad came home from work, I knew immediately from the look on his face whether it was going to be three martinis before dinner kind of night or not. Most of the time, it was. I could feel his repressed anger like an electric buzz up and down my spine. I watched and waited to see what would happen. Fight or flight? For me, it was always flight. Off to my room I would go, hiding my own emotions while focusing solely on his. But first, I’d steal half a dozen cookies that my mother had hidden in the freezer.

Now I’m middle aged and have a big group of adult children and their partners from which to draw my feelings. They carry around their own emotions (mostly in a healthy way) which means I carry them around too (not as healthy). When they’re happy, I’m ecstatic. When they’re moody, I’m depressed. Now my daughter and son-in-law who live with us are expecting their first baby and I’m going to be a grandmother! Unfortunately, my daughter inherited my morning (all day and night) sickness from me, so she’s been feeling extremely queasy. I don’t physically feel ill, but I find myself fixating on her anxiety as she as navigates her symptoms. As much as I want to make her discomfort go away, it’s her experience, and she’s the one who must feel all those feelings—physical and emotional. It’s part of the process of motherhood. Someday, she’ll probably take on the burden of her own daughter’s emotions.

Mothers tend to do that.

In the meantime, because I love to feel all those big feelings, I get to experience being a new mother all over again. But this time, I don’t have to change a poopy diaper if I don’t want to.

But knowing me, I’ll be begging to do it.

Hurry It Along

Getting old is kind of getting old. I’ve discovered that my normally sweet and patient personality has become more curmudgeon-like as of late. Maybe it’s because I’m finally admitting to myself that as each day flies by faster than the previous one, my time here in this existence is limited.

A few days ago, I had to drop my daughter off at the train station so she could head back to college. She had come home to celebrate her oldest sister’s birthday (yup—another indication of my age is that I now have a 35 year-old child.) We were in a bit of a hurry, but we decided to stop by our favorite bakery for a treat. I was relieved to see that the line only had 3-4 people in it.

As it was still early, there were only two people working at the bakery. A stylish young couple (the woman had a head full of blond highlights, perfect make-up, and JUICY written in big letters across her purple velour behind) were being helped. They seemed to be oblivious that there were people waiting behind them, and they decided that they really had to ask detailed questions about every single ingredient of every single donut/pastry in the case. I could tell the young man helping them was getting frustrated as he watched the line grow longer with each query.

Is this for real? I thought to myself. I must’ve sighed a bit too loudly, because my daughter whipped her head around and gave me the death stare.

“Mom, seriously?” she hissed under her breath. “Can’t you just chill, please? I hate it when you do this—it’s embarrassing!”

“What’s more embarrassing is that those two idiots up there are completely oblivious that they’re holding up the line,” I thought I had whispered it, but I saw the guy ahead of me in line crack a smile so it must’ve been louder than I thought.

She rolled her eyes and I decided to keep the peace and hold my tongue. Of course my daughter was right—it was probably only a minute or two wait, and in that moment, I had chosen to become an impatient shrew.

If I’m honest, it really wasn’t that I had to wait. It was that this young couple (emphasis on young) acted like they didn’t have a care in the world. With their privileged youth and beauty on full display, they did exactly what they wanted without any consideration for the rest of us.

Like a jelly donut, I was filled with envy.

I was envious because I’ve never learned to put myself first. To this day, I still feel guilty when I do something kind for myself. Born the middle-child pleaser, my concern has always been about someone else’s feelings or wants—never my own. It’s tragic that I would never once consider treating a friend the way I treat myself.

But I’m working on it. With the encouragement of my husband and children, I’m learning to be kinder to myself.

“Go get a massage,” my daughter implores me, “You deserve it!” And sometimes I actually listen. Right now, I’m typing on my newly purchased Mac Book Pro after using a computer that was almost fifteen years old.  I’ve also learned to be selective with my friendships, and surround myself with women who care for me with unconditional, non-transactional love—who are interested in what I have to say, and most importantly, value who I am as a person.

If I’m fortunate, I’ve got maybe a mere thirty years left of this life—and the minutes are quickly ticking away. So I’ve decided I’m going to give myself some grace for acting like an old fart once in a while. I know for a fact that there will be times I’m irritated and impatient while out in public. I promise I’ll try to keep it to myself.

But if I’m unable to hold it in, and you hear a loud sigh behind you while waiting in line at the bakery (or anywhere else for that matter), please hurry it along.

This girl’s got some living to do, and you really don’t want to hold her up.

Meaningful Connection

I was supposed to have my Christmas cards done and sent out by now, but the sad fact is I haven’t even started. This year, there is no adorable Mireles family photo, mostly because we are no longer adorable, but even more so, it’s impossible to get everyone together in the same place at the same time. It also doesn’t help that I’m visually impaired at the moment while recovering from eye surgery (You try getting anything done with an annoying gas bubble floating behind your eye for weeks on end.)

It’s silly that I feel like a failure if I don’t spend hours composing our annual newsletter and then adding a hand written line or two on a Christmas card. Not to mention waiting in line at the post office to purchase all those stamps (I do love a pretty holiday stamp, though—especially those with red birds in trees, or the snowy forest scenes.) Then there’s the cramming everything into envelopes and stuffing them all into the mailbox for the poor mail carrier to pick up. All that work, and probably most folks don’t have the time or interest to sit down and read about what we are all up to—nor do I imagine they even care.

But I’m one of those old-school weirdos that love getting greeting cards and letters in the mail. If you send me a newsletter, I swear that I will read every single line with relish. Then I’ll tape your festive holiday photo/card up on our front entry closet door so I can admire your smiling faces every time I walk into the house.

Being part of the generation that grew up before email and social media, we often had to wait a very long time to hear from someone. Back then, instant gratification wasn’t always the case, so the anticipation became everything. Waiting for that special letter to come in the mail always gave you something exciting to look forward to.

Forty years ago, after I had fallen madly in love with husband after dating him for only three weeks, he left to go back to Mexico for several months. His family home had no phone, so he had to take a bus into Oaxaca City and find a pay phone to call me collect. Let’s just say that for a college student on a limited budget, regular phone calls were out of the question. Instead, we penned love letters to each other. I can still remember the thrill of finding a special green and red striped air mail envelope in my mailbox. I would read his letters over and over, and they made me feel as if I was holding a part of him close to me. After all these years, we still have all the letters we exchanged tucked away in a special box.

The first homemade Christmas card Rene sent me from Oaxaca.

Don’t get me wrong, a holiday message doesn’t always have to be in the form of a tangible letter—I love receiving email greetings as well. I experience immense pleasure reading about what you’ve been up, especially if this is the one interaction we have all year long. Connection, however brief, is still extremely meaningful. I’d much rather think about you once a year than not at all.

Back when the kids were young, they went with their dad on a trip to Oaxaca, while I stayed home for some reason. While on the beach there, they met a couple from South Carolina with whom they shared the cost of a boat tour. Since that meeting, our families have been exchanging Christmas newsletters with them for over 25 years—and I’ve never even met them! Two of their grown children/grandchildren live in Oakland, very near to where my daughter lives.

I believe it’s so valuable for us to keep our connection alive. My hope is that after Christmas, I’ll send out a New Years’ card and newsletter although this year, I make no promises. If you read this post, please know that I loved receiving your greeting, and I will carry the happy thought of you with me during this beautiful holiday season.

I wish you peace and joy into the coming year as well!

And do check your mailbox, as I might come through after all.

A few of Rene’s letters that would make me jump for joy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prone

Today, I can only write in fifteen minute increments. Then it’s back to bed with my head shoved into a special pillow so I can watch Netflix or TikTok until I want to scream. Every two hours my phone goes off alerting me that it’s time for more of those stinging eye drops.

A week ago, I noticed a tiny dark shadow in the corner of my left eye. At first I thought it had appeared because I had driven down to L.A. to visit my daughter at UCI, and the autumn sun sat low and bright as I drove, shining right into my eyes for most of the trip. Normally, I would’ve put off calling the doctor, and just wait for the problem to simply resolve itself, but this time, it felt different—somehow more ominous. My gut told me to call. I’ve written about my issues with slight retina detachments before (you can read about it here should you be so inclined: https://allegronontanto.wordpress.com/2023/05/18/seeing-clearly/ .

My hunch was right–my retina had detached. And it wasn’t a slight one, either. The following morning, I went under the knife, so to speak, and before the surgeon patched me up, she left me a special gift behind my eye—a gas bubble that I’m told will eventually dissipate over time. This bubble is prevents the retina from detaching again, and to optimize its usefulness, the patient (me) must keep her head down and flat for 45 minutes of each hour. In the meantime, that big, fat bubble is pretty much preventing me from seeing clearly out of my left eye.

I must admit that the lying flat part is worse than the actual surgery. Because I’m a person who always has to be accomplishing something, this has been the most difficult aspect of my recovery. Oh, the guilt of not working! That old crone in my head will not stop shouting “Idleness is of the devil!”

Having the luxury of unlimited time to lie around and do nothing is so uncomfortable for me. To watch a complete Netflix series in one sitting is just not in my wheelhouse, especially if I can’t fold laundry or give myself a pedicure while watching. (By the way, I highly recommend “The Chestnut Man,” a Danish murder/detective limited series—it’s fantastic.) Now, not only does my back hurt from being prone for so long, I’m also on a course of steroids for inflammation, which makes me crave salty food. And I’m uncharacteristically grumpy.

Poor, poor me. For once in my life, I have nothing to do, and yet I still manage to complain.

I’ve had many experiences in my life that try to teach me to stop and slow down. And I do manage to change my behavior, at least for a little while. Then, before I know it, I’m back to rush, work, and produce. I realize I’ve got to learn to enjoy each tiny little moment; that time is moving way too fast and I’ve got maybe another thirty years left on this planet. I’m sure I’ll be receiving messages from the universe in the future to make me stop and reflect.

Right now, I am trying my best to be still. When I can hold my head upright again, I’ll probably go right back to being that woman who must accomplish something in order to be deemed worthy.

But for now, I will lie down, find another show to stream, and keep my head down.

And I will do nothing.

The Patience of a Saint

People have told me that I have the patience of a saint. It’s definitely in my job description, as sitting at a piano for five or more hours a day with students who don’t always practice requires this useful character trait. My imperturbable temperament has also helped me raise four daughters to adulthood and allowed me to stay married to the same man for thirty-six years. Both rewarding, but both not inherently easy. If and when he reads this, my husband is definitely thinking, “It takes two to tango, Honey.” And indeed it does.

I’m also a bit of a scaredy-cat. Since I was a young girl, I’ve dealt with a lot of anxiety. Our poor, traumatized parents mixed with the culture of 1970’s really messed with us, and like many of my peers, I had a bit of a tumultuous childhood which led to insecurity and lack of self worth. I’m not sure exactly when I decided that I wasn’t intelligent or beautiful enough, but unfortunately, I’ve carried these untruths around in my head for decades.

When I was in my late forties, after I almost lost my youngest to cancer (you know the story), I let go of some of my fear and decided to write a novel. I honestly didn’t know what I was doing, as I’d never had any real training in creative writing except for one semester in college. That vile voice in my mind kept telling me to forget it—that no one would ever want to read something I wrote—but I somehow managed to fight her off. It took me more than five years, but I completed a novel. In April of 2020, She Writes Press published Lost in Oaxaca.

Yep—2020. You remember the pandemic? After all my preparation for a book launch, WHAM—everything shut down. No party, no book launch, zilch.

But my perseverance kicked in and I went full force on social media to keep promoting my book: “If you can’t travel to Oaxaca in person, at least you can travel there in your mind!” or “Hang out in the backyard under an umbrella (six feet away from anyone, please) and tag along with Camille as she navigates the magical land of Oaxaca!” or “Please, please, please, just buy my damn book!”

I really must’ve driven you all crazy with all of my posting and blogging. I’m so sorry I spent so much time trying to insert the fact that I wrote a book into every conversation. I swear I’m not a narcissist! But hey, I was not about to let my lifelong dream die.

I guess my determination and patience paid off, as book sales are still going strong. But the most exciting thing that’s happened is that Lost in Oaxaca has recently been optioned by Sony Pictures to be made into a film! Now, before you get too excited, this is just an option, which means they are interested in seeing where it goes, and it may never make it to the big screen. But they’re paying me more than the standard amount, so clearly they’re interested.

And how could they not be? Adventure, music, romance, culture, and travel all wrapped up into one exciting story—you see where I’m going with this. Promote, promote, promote!  And you thought I was finally done talking about my book.

Whatever happens, it’s been such a wonderful ride these past few years. Thank you for all of your continued love and support. If it does actually make it to the movies, we’re having a big screening and you’re all invited!

And Remember: Good things come to those who wait.

 

If you’ve read Lost in Oaxaca, who do you think should play the main roles in the movie?

My picks are as follows:

Camille: Emma Stone or Rachel McAdams

Camille’s Mother: Allison Janney

Alejandro: Tenoch Huerta (although he’s currently embroiled in some controversy so there’s that.) Maybe an unknown?

Graciela: Yalitza Aparicio (she’s older, but definitely could play an 18 year old.)

Sofia: No idea!

Leave a comment and let me know your picks!

What Do I Want?

The house is strangely quiet. This is not unusual, because this past summer, our youngest daughter Isa hadn’t even been around much before leaving for college last week. She was either at her boyfriend’s house, getting Boba with friends, or working long hours at a local doggy daycare.

I’ve been watching Isa disengage from us for a while now—sometimes we wouldn’t even see her for an entire day or two. But we knew she was always close by, and we enjoyed that sense of anticipation of seeing her walk in through the front door, her arms often laden with bags of clothes she’d meticulously thrifted from Good Will.

“Fashion show! Fashion show!” we’d chant, carrying on a tradition that we had with the three older girls who, after shopping for new school clothes would try on their outfits and strut around the living room to our enthusiastic oohs and aahs. Luckily for my budget, Isa rarely buys anything brand new, and has the uncanny ability to find those rare designer treasures hidden deep within the thrift store racks. If she was in the mood, she’d model for us the crop sweaters, trendy jeans, and cute Brandi Melville skirts she’d picked up for a song.

Last Friday, we packed up the van with entirely too many cardboard boxes and drove the 150 miles down to UC Irvine. We spent the day helping her organize/decorate her dorm room (actually her older sister, Nora did most of that.) We met her delightful roommate, and after an exhausting and emotional day, finally said our goodbyes.

Her dad and I didn’t really cry until the next day, when it fully hit us that our baby girl was gone. We know that she’s only a car ride away and that we’ll see her soon. But we also know that nothing will ever be exactly the same again, and that’s the really hard part. Isa has launched. And so must we.

My husband and I are currently faced with a sense of now what? While we’ve been intently raising children together for the past 34 years, we’ve put aside many of our own wants and needs to take care of the wants and needs of our kids. Now, after all this time, we have to figure out what it is we actually want.

Scary, right?

I realize I’ll never have a completely empty nest, and I don’t really want one. I consider myself fortunate that my daughters are emotionally tethered to each other and to our family. But it’s time to start putting myself first. What a concept.

Wish me luck, as I think this may be one of the most difficult tasks I’ve ever had to face in my life.

What the hell DO I want?

When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.

She’s an Anteater now!

 

 

Letting Her Go

I’ll do anything to not write about her leaving.

So far this morning, I’ve answered seven emails, done two loads of laundry, and spent a ridiculous $7 for at coffee at Starbucks. I went to Target and picked up items that I really didn’t need, cleaned out the refrigerator, and ate a bowl of leftover rigatoni for breakfast.

Yup—I’m thoroughly entrenched in avoidance mode.

A child leaving home and heading off to college is nothing new—I have four children, so I’ve done it several times already. In three weeks my eighteen year-old daughter will be 130 miles, or two and a half hours away from me—just far enough for her to gain some independence, yet close enough for her to get on a train and come home for the weekend should she be inclined. It’s not a big deal, right?

Except that it is.

It’s a big deal because who I am is so inextricably tied to being Isa’s mom. God knows I was more than a ripened peach when I birthed her at the age of forty-two. Geriatric pregnancy, anyone? With three teenagers already under my belt, I was thrown back into new-mom mode a whopping ten years after I thought I was done. Getting up in the middle of the night to feed and change a baby in your late twenties is hard enough, but doing it in your forties while raising a family, running a household, and teaching 35 piano students was too much. I was exhausted, over-extended, and resentful.

Then the unimaginable happened. The normally energetic toddler could barely walk up the stairs; her gums began to bleed, and there were bruises on her legs that wouldn’t go away.

Leukemia.

For two weeks, I slept in the hospital during her initial treatment. When her temperature was taken or her blood was drawn; the fear encased me in stone. I spent hours studying the nurses’ faces for any signs of alarm. If her labs were good, I felt like I could soar into the heavens—if they were bad, I was devastated. For two and a half years, I took Isa to all of her clinic appointments, her pale, bald head poking out from her favorite fleece blanket as we navigated the maze of hospital corridors. I crushed up her nightly chemo meds into a powder and mixed them with cherry syrup so she wouldn’t fuss. My hands continually stroked her back as I felt for the fever that would put us back into a hospital room.

When Isa was considered cured, I happily discovered that my exhaustion had evaporated and my resentment had faded. Somehow, I’d tapped into my inner strength while caring for my daughter. Then I used that strength to find my own voice.

Isa’s birth, illness, and ultimately, her survival—changed our family in ways that we still don’t fully comprehend. All we know is that we adore her beyond measure, and we will miss her profoundly.

My gift to her will be the most precious, but also the most painful.

I will let her go.

 

Lay the Towel Down

I couldn’t fall asleep last night. I felt like I was on the verge of a panic attack, but having honed my emotional-regulation skills over the years, I quickly talked myself out of it with a few deep, lung-filling breaths. That’s one of the benefits of having almost lost a child to cancer—I’ve learned to take down the panic like a professional wrestler.

Lately, though, there have been some big hits on my emotional radar, and I’m finding it more difficult to find mental tranquility. My brother recently fell and broke his shoulder and had to have surgery. He’s on his own and doesn’t drive, so my eighty-seven year old, blind-in-one-eye, walker-using mother has been driving him to his doctor appointments (Locals—for your own safety, please avoid a red Dodge Caliber with clouds of white dog hair drifting out the back windows.) I know that when my mom is no longer able to help my brother, it will mostly fall on my shoulders—as it should—but the thought of adding more to my already heavy life-load is daunting.

As we age, there’s no avoiding life’s sorrow. It seems as if all of my recent conversations with people are centered on death and dying. Several of my dearest friends are in the thick of it right now. One lost her husband in a bike accident a year ago, and the pain is as raw today as it was then. Another recently lost her children’s father to cancer. Although they were no longer married, their history together, as well as their mutual love for their children carried on their bond. Another friend is profoundly worried about her mother, who even after seeing dozens of doctors, continues to experience chronic and debilitating pain. A fourth friend has been watching her best friend gradually lose her fight with ALS. It’s unbearable to imagine watching a best friend slowly fade away and there’s nothing you except be there and love her.

My heart hurts for all of them.

Yesterday, when I was watering the garden, I tripped over my own feet and somehow managed to squirt water up my nose. Hopefully the neighbors weren’t watching as I’m sure it was quite the sight to see. But that burning feeling in my nose was not wholly unpleasant. In fact, it instantly transported me back to the lazy summer days of my childhood, when we would spend so much time in the pool that our lungs would hurt from breathing in all the chorine. After exhausting ourselves from playing Marco Polo for three hours, we’d lay our towels on the cement and feel the steamy heat come through as the sun dried the icy trickles from our tired, wet bodies. We’d smell the delicious aroma of meatloaf and mashed potatoes wafting out through the kitchen window and our stomachs would rumble in anticipation. Our dripping heads close together, we’d plot out in hushed whispers the best way to get our parents to say yes to a sleepover.

In those long ago moments, there was no worry about parents getting old and sick, or our best friends dying—there was only the joy of a long summer stretching out in front of us. I know there’s little we can do to avoid the seemingly constant discomfort in our lives, whether it be physical or mental, as we must accept that life comes with hardship. But maybe—just maybe—if we try hard enough, we can scour our memories for those long ago  joyful experiences and recreate them, if only for a moment. We can let the pain and sorrow leave us for the time being—and we can celebrate the innocence of our childhoods once again.

Deep breaths, my friends. Lay the towel down and rest.

 

Seeing Clearly

Yesterday, I had a laser procedure on my retina. Turns out, I have a slight retinal detachment caused by the shedding of the jelly-like vitreous humour (the stuff that causes those floaters in our eyes) which created a small tear in my retina. For quite some time now, my floaters have been partying behind my eyes like college students on a Friday night. At this very moment, as I stare at my white computer screen, a mixture of black bugs and spider webs are gyrating across my line of vision. I’m told my brain will stop seeing them eventually, but I’m not convinced. Good thing I don’t have an insect phobia.

It’s happening. I’m aging exponentially faster every year. I recently renewed my expired passport, and comparing my photo from ten years ago to my recent one, I was shocked to discover I look like a completely different person. My drooping lids are almost covering my eyes, and my face looks like it’s sagging.. At least ten times a day, I walk into a room and forget why I went in there. If I don’t add an event to the calendar in my phone, it immediately evaporates from my consciousness.

When my youngest was born, I was forty-two, and I remember calculating that I’d be sixty when she finished high school. Back then, it all seemed so far off in the distance, yet I blinked for a second and now I’m about watch my little girl graduate and head off into adulthood.

Please make it stop—I’m not ready!

Many of my close friends have lost their parents recently. My own mother, while still relatively healthy, is approaching eighty-seven and starting to really slow down. She recently purchased a “state of the art” walker which she likes to joke “does not come with the motivation to walk!” We talk openly about her eventual death, and she has begun making lists to ease the process for all of us when it does happen. It’s difficult to fathom our lives without her, but there’s absolutely nothing we can do to stop it from happening.

I’m losing steam as well. Household projects get put on the back burner because I just don’t have the energy I used to. Lately, all I want to do is dig in the garden, read, and occasionally, work on my second novel, although my computer also doesn’t come with a “motivation to write.”

I’m really trying to focus more on the present moment, which by god, is a task in itself. Why is it so damn hard for so many of us to enjoy the now when it’s right there in front of our faces every second of every day?

Perhaps giving ourselves more grace is the answer. I’m just too old to have to prove myself worthy all the time. I don’t have to fold laundry to justify watching Netflix. If I want to cook a meal for my family, I can let them do the dishes. Hanging out with the neighbors on the front lawn is more important than cleaning the bathroom. Watching a corny movie with my husband is much more satisfying than organizing a closet.

As my vision begins to clear, and I will try with all my might not to blink too often. Focusing on the wonder of life, I know that the seemingly insignificant things will indeed appear to be gilded.

The hell with the dancing bugs–I’m putting on my rose-colored glasses.

 

A gallery of some of the good things in my life:

A local lake is full again after the winter rains.

My youngest daughter, Isa, posing for prom pictures with her boyfriend, Ethan.

My oldest, Nora playing with our neighbor, Maisie.

The most delightfully scented rose–Mr. Lincoln.

My garden.