No matter where I am, I AM the mountain. Although sometimes cloud-covered, the mountain endures. I abide. I hold on through life changes, always ready for the sun to poke through timidly or shine brazenly, each time rendering a different perspective. That optimistic anticipation? That unrelenting readiness? That’s called hope. ********** “These are the soul’s changes. I don’t believe in ageing. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun. Hence, my optimism.”
After six decades on this planet, I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. Don’t count on anything. Don’t count on anyone. Don’t count your blessings, your chickens, or sheep. Actually, in all honesty, don’t count.
I’m not saying this glibly. I’ve given this serious thought for quite some time. Today, this idea of freeing myself from counting and quantifying is at the forefront, as I sit looking out on a sky vacillating between sunny and foreboding. I’ve been waiting for a very long time for the roosters to come home to roost, the chickens to hatch, my blessings to abound and multiply, and for the sheep to put me to sleep. Alas, none of the aforementioned has happened. Alas? Perhaps, although now I’m thinking that these “failures” may be fortuitous after all.
Lucky may not be exactly what I feel about missing the mark on these fronts; relief may be the more fitting description of how I’m feeling at present. It’s oddly soothing to concede to the notion that nothing is guaranteed. Today, as I look to the sky and wonder, “Will the rain subside and the sun come out again?,” I breathe in and realize that it is better to have no expectations.
I have forever believed that people say what they mean and mean what they say. I have forever believed that good things come to those who wait. I have forever believed that if I give enough of myself to others, they will see my worth. Now, I know. I cannot count on people meaning what they say. I cannot count on good things happening if I’m patient. I cannot count on anyone actually seeing my value. I cannot count on anything or anyone to love me into success or worth. I count on nothing. I do have faith, though. I have faith that I’ll see my worth, learn to value and accept myself, and love myself less critically and with more compassion.
It’s a gray day here in New England, as many of them are this time of year. The snowfall is tapering off; and Mother Nature has left an adequate blanket of white to remind us that (1) she’s in charge; and (2) nothing is permanent. The wind blows and creates mini dunes in otherwise unscathed parts of the neighborhood (although quite frankly and much to my chagrin, there are few untouched and undeveloped parcels left here).
It’s the thirteenth of February already. Anyone else convinced that as we age that damn clock seems to tick faster, and the pages on the calendar are ripped off even faster? I’ve lost a lot since 2020. We all have. Time especially. I’m thinking about this because? Because I’m alone. It’s quiet. The silence is so loud that all I can hear is the wind blowing and the clock ticking. Am I wasting time? Maybe. Some may think so, and often I agree, but not today. I think the universe gives us days like today expressly for the purpose of pausing. There is an inherent need for quiet and for rest, and yet most of us don’t know what to do with ourselves; lack of activity equates to laziness, yes? No. Not at all. In fact, I only wish my mind would rest as much as my body does. The ticking of the clock isn’t measuring my steps, my hours online, the miles I’ve ridden or driven. The near-deafening strike that the clock-hand marks as each second passes reminds me today that there’s a lot left to do, more to become – and yet I mosey and we dilly-dally – we squander our time consuming ourselves with the notion that we must be busy. We are so busy. Too busy to call. Too busy to write. Too busy to stop and listen to the wind blow, to hear the icy snow tapping on the windows as it begs to come in, and to recognize our inner voices when they tell us to rest both body and mind.
I’m listening today. It’s one of the “busiest” afternoons of this type that I’ve had in a while. Imagine that? Mother Nature knows. And let me just say that I’m not surprised she knows; after all, she is a woman.
Today, Mother Nature is my purple.
(Video rights @debra_coetzer; Music rights Lady Gaga & Mark Ronson)
Wherever she is. Wherever she is going. It doesn’t matter at all. She has finally figured it out. She IS home! She has been wandering and searching and pining for home.
She looked in the mirror this morning and discovered that she was home. She had arrived.
Home for the holidays has entirely new meaning when you realize that you’ve been carrying it with you all along. *********** “It was when I stopped searching for home within others / and lifted the foundations of home within myself / I found there were no roots more intimate / than those between a mind and body / that have decided to be whole.” — Rupi Kaur
Erma, ever the mom, scolds her friend, “Grow up, my friend. If they can do it, you can, too.”
There is quite a bit in this life that makes me cry. Yep, I’m a crier. Tears flow when I’m angry, when I’m sad, when I’m disappointed, and even when I’m overcome with joy (especially when I’m bowled over by something seemingly irrelevant). Forty-eight full hours of doing nothing but enjoying their company; listening to them laugh while watching replays of Veep; and being the doting and maybe even mildly overbearing mom.
I’m driving away now, and I’m smiling and sobbing all at once. They are delighted and happily-at-home in their own place, navigating life as they wish, and making this mixed-up world of ours –of mine – make sense at the moment. I’ve done a lot wrong, but this, this is indeed my legacy. In this moment, I don’t give a f#@* where I live, what I have in the bank, who hates me or loves me. I’m not writing for followers. I’m not editing a Goddamn piece of these last forty-eight hours. It’s all just perfect.
“You are going nowhere fast, Sylvia. That may sound harsh, but it’s the truth,” Erma cautions her best friend.
Sylvia could feel those words going into her core like a knife. No anesthesia. No sugar-coating. Erma, never one to mince words with Sylvia –the woman to whom she vowed brutal honesty and unwavering support –was certainly living up to her end of that deal. With a tone of equal parts disappointment (in herself and Erma) and reluctant acceptance, Sylvia replies, “Ouch. That really smarts!”
Smarts. It is a curious expression, don’t you agree? Smart is generally associated with intelligence and sharpness – both in appearance and intellect. “He’s such a smart dresser.” “She has such a wry sense of humor and can be a real smart aleck!” The verb though is a whole different ball of wax. “That smarts.” That hurts. It stings. When something smarts, well, it is the result of a painful remark or misstep. In this case, Sylvia feels wounded, almost bitten. She knows that Erma’s comment is meant to be constructive in some way; but at that moment, Sylvia cannot figure out her friend’s intention. The truth hurts; of that, she is abundantly aware.
“Erma, what do you mean? Why would you say that? After all, I’ve been on-the-go since the beginning of the year pretty much,” Sylvia questions. “I’m going somewhere. “
Recognizing the hurt and defensiveness in her friend’s tone, Erma realizes her statement demands clarification. “Nowhere. I didn’t mean that the way it came out. What I should have said is that you always amaze me. No plan. No painstakingly contrived itinerary. You’ll go anywhere! Anywhere is nowhere without a name, a ticket, or a place to call your own.”
That smarts. Sylvia decides to pull out the knife, dress the wound, and begin again in this moment.
“There would have been more I love yous … more I’m sorrys … more I’m listenings … but mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it … look at it and really see it … try it on … live it … exhaust it … and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it.” ~Erma Bombeck
We are nearly halfway through the year, and I realize that I’ve been running. Running from? Running to? Perhaps, both. Perhaps, neither.
Looking back and assessing the various mental paths, physical landscapes, and women-centric bonding experiences that I’ve explored since this year began, I realize that “the great escape” might just be that which isn’t planned at all. An unexpected visit from a friend. An impromptu walk through a small town center while en route to another destination unknown. An afternoon on the water. A cup of coffee enjoyed slowly and in solitude. All escapes.
“Maybe that’s it, Erma,” Sylvia realizes in what has quickly transformed from merely thinking out loud to an a-ha moment.
“What? What’s it, Syl?” Erma asks.
“We don’t need to search or plan our escapes. There are moments, hours, and even more prolonged periods of time that present us with escape from both the tedium and those worry-filled and angst-ridden situations that could otherwise throw us into a tailspin. It takes a second. A breath. Inhale. Exhale. A glance at our surroundings. Those are the momentary detours that can save us.”
Erma, considering and digesting her best friend’s espousal of what it means to escape, raises her hand to stop Sylvia from further commentary. “Enough. I get it. Let’s just bask in this instant.”
That’s escape! Indeed.
*********************** To embrace the present moment intentionally and be who you are where you are at a time when you could easily succumb to the woes of the world and the expectations of others — the great escape. (~K. Morgan)
What do you want to do with the rest of your life?” Erma asks Sylvia earlier today over their ritualistic morning coffee.
“This last chapter, you mean? I only have one thing in mind,” Sylvia asserts.
Erma, knowing full well that her best friend can be introspective and prophetic as well as bold and bawdy on some unexpected occasions, awaits a profound response.
“I’m going to do it all myself for myself, whatever it is,” Sylvia avows.
Wednesday wisdom from the gals: Have fun. Be serious. Make mistakes. Dare. Live with both intention and wild abandon. Do it all for you because in the end you are all you have. You are your best and most important project! ****************** It takes half your life before you discover life is a do-it-yourself project. ~Napoleon Hill
"ARE YOU THERE, ERMA? IT'S ME, SYLVIA." 