Sunday, December 1, 2013
Like Sand Through The Hourglass So Are The Days Of Our Lives
It's funny really....yet it's tragic but it's OK that it's tragic because like anything else in life, you get used to what you know and it's comfortable because it's familiar. So how did I get to this place where I will now and again laugh because it's so normal, that feeling when everything goes wrong? Is that good or bad? How did I get to this point where it seems I have reconciled the argument between my past and present, I almost miss the fighting because it was what I knew. I am sitting here listening to my wonderful family laughing downstairs, happy to know they are enjoying this place I have created for them to be accepted and loved, free of negative opinions and influences presented by the world outside the door that leads to all kinds of possible pain and all kinds of possible beauty. I not only have my children (grown or otherwise) here tonight to eat the leftovers from Thanksgiving, but their friends whom I have grown to love over the years and I am so happy to hear their voices down there, laughing, singing, cussing like sailors (probably my fault there). And I realize I am at peace with all the shit that has flown overhead and underfoot for 5 decades, I am happy and that worries me because it could mean that I have just given up. I have retired to my room to write, have a glass or 3 of wine and to contemplate things that have recently taken place in my life. I love my room, it's not overly pretty, the floors are old wood and the white paint has rubbed off, the doors are scratched at the bottom a reminder of beloved pets long since passed trying to wake me up to start my day, the walls are an ugly sort of turquoise that Emma picked out when she was about 15. The room I love is not a room that has escaped death, I watched my Mother leave her body here in this place, this room has seen many tears and much laughter over the 10 years that it has been part of my life. My children used to crawl into the bed with my Mom every night and watch Wheel of Fortune and they would guess what color Vanna's dress would be. Then there were nights when I would be downstairs making dinner and I would hear my Mom call them up to watch Golden Girls with her, they all loved Betty White (Rose) and I could hear them laughing. My Mother's voice still echo's through the halls of my mind and I am so happy that I haven't forgotten the sound of it. Before she passed away, she was so worried that we would be afraid to have this room because "someone died in it" so she told us that whomever took this room would be watched after, by her, from wherever it is that she was going. We all have chosen this small room at one point or another since her departure, Emma loved it, she re-decorated it and she was the first to take it after the fact. A few of her early music videos that she posted to youtube were recorded here in front of the black and white wallpaper and turquoise walls. Scott had it for a while as well but I live here now, embraced by the memories and the colors and the life that has been lived in this little square place at the top of my house. I do not share a room with my husband, we really only did that for a couple of years then we realized, love doesn't mean having to lay awake while someone else snored. Our relationship is stable and we can handle not laying in each others dead skin cells night after night. I'm OK if Scott is in the next room it doesn't threaten me that we aren't attached at the hip. I prefer my room to smell like Chanel No. 5 and dogs and Scott's smells a whole lot like beer and smokes and musty old albums, we all have our favorite scents I guess. So as I was saying, well...typing. I am at this "place" and I'm not sure I've been here before, this particular place in my life. For many years I would crumble and take a while to snap back when things went awry. I am not sure how it is that I find myself crumbling yet simultaneously standing and going on with things. I am not sure if it is maturity, and experience or maybe resignation because I am so used to being defeated that it's second nature now...I find that sad, but I also find it the more likely of the 2 possibilities. So do I spring back like a great gymnast who has fallen but is unaffected because she is so certain the fall is behind her, lesson learned, craft perfected...OR do I spring back with such ambivalence that I don't even recognize that I am ambivalent, I just fall because I am crippled and stand back up because it's instinctual, only to take a few steps and fall again because to lay there forever would be admitting defeat? So it's half hearted and without much hope that I stand up to face another walk, another start, another beginning, another craft, another career, another home, another friend, another me...on and on and on and nothing comes to fruition, my tree is planted in sand where no root will ever hold and I just can't admit it to myself because I like me too much to say "It's not going to work" and so I believe over and over that this new person, this new challenge, this new start, this new project, this new God, this new love, this new me will finally root itself firmly and I will have a place to be, to stand strong and confident, secure that I will not fall and then I remember....it's all sand.