Shrinking

The older you get, the smaller you become.

Day by day, this is more obvious to me. A grain of sand. Dust in the wind. Call it what you will, it's a smallness I feel in every bone in my body.

My world exists mostly within these four walls. I live, eat, and work here. Mr. Ginley is my constant companion. And Maggie, of course. She sleeps most of the time but makes it a habit to do so next to my work computer, so her presence is welcome.

I look back with a combination of fondness and chagrin on my former self. Like a chrysalis, I've shed my ambitions, any dreams I had of the future, but I don't feel much like a butterfly. Except that I realize how brief life really is. It's become a day-at-a-time affair, no pretense that there will be a tomorrow.

So I take up amusements like puzzles, binge watching, and books. I scroll a bit on FB, but not too much, because the outside world is a fearsome place. I enjoy my homemade hot chocolate and having weird conversations with Mr. Ginley about our shared past, music, and just about anything else you could imagine (or couldn't).

We here have become like the man in the boat in Thomas Cole's Voyage of Life. Unlike the earlier depiction of the man's life, when he's in full control of the craft and his future lies in the calm of the river ahead, at this stage, the river is churning and the boat is taking him wherever it will go. There's no controlling it. 

We haven't reached the final panel yet, when the heavens open up and the angel comes for the old guy. I imagine that's when you reach the stage of acceptance. You know you can't control anything, the ride is coming to an end, and you give yourself over to it.

I suppose that's the real secret to aging with grace. The letting go. 

The Voyage of Life, By Thomas Cole - National Gallery of Art, Washington, D. C., online collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=182995

Battling the Blues

Did pioneer women get the blues?

I was musing about this the other day as I sipped my tea, read a book, and tried to dispel the ennui that's settled in over the past few weeks. 

Rather than dwell on my own emotional state, I began to think about those intrepid women who crossed the country in search of a better life. Huddled around a fire with their family in a drafty cabin. She had to feed everybody, be they human or livestock, tend to sick children, stitch up holey clothes, and no doubt put her own needs in last place.

Because that's been the role of women through the ages. Not that I'd want to be the one who had to grab a gun and start shooting stuff for dinner, although I'm sure plenty of women took on that task, too.

So, did pioneer women suffer from seasonal depression? Or did they find beauty in snowscapes and telling tales around a blazing fireplace? Did they look to the heavens with gratitude when the food was plentiful and everyone was healthy? 

All of this makes me realize how paltry my complaints are. Maybe I should just be thankful that at this moment, life is good. I'm in a warm house. I don't have to go anywhere today. I have plenty of food, water, toilet paper, and chocolate.

I just looked out the window and saw a little sparrow, who's probably freezing his tail feathers off. He looked me in the eye as if to say, "You think you've got it bad, sister?" Then he flew at the window and away.

Now seems like a good time to make some hot tea, grab a few animal crackers, and curl up on the couch.

And maybe count my blessings while I'm at it.

Photo attribution: Internet Archive Book Images, No restrictions, via Wikimedia Commons

Beam Me Down, Scotty

When I was hired, I was asked to fill out a short survey asking the usual things like did I have pets, what was my favorite food, and what my favorite saying was.

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The one thing it asked that I didn't think much about at the time was, if you could have a superpower, what would it be?

I flippantly replied it would be time travel, so I could go back and get today's winning lottery numbers. Which would, of course, mean I wouldn't have to work ever again. 

Some people picked invisibility. A coworker once commented that you should never trust anyone who chose this, because they would likely use their superpower for evil. 

Upon further reflection, I think I'd choose teleportation. I'd love to turn up in Paris in springtime or London just about anytime. Ireland has been added to my list. And parts of Italy, particularly the countryside, appeal to me. 

I mean, wouldn't it be nice to escape the dreary, snowy, finger-numbing cold and pop over to Hawaii? Hang out on the beach, read a book, soak up the rays for a weekend here and there. 

Sure, I can travel along with Rick Steves on PBS, but you only get to see places, you don't get to experience them.  I want to taste that local delicacy, sip a brew in that cozy cafe, chat with the locals, and marvel at ancient wonders in person. 

Ah, well, not likely to happen anytime soon.

I'll just have to play the lottery the old-fashioned way, hope for the best, lose, and head back to my writing desk.

And remind myself that there are only sixty-nine days until the first day of spring.

Photo attribution: Jin Zan, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons

Meanderings

"That's called a portmanteau," Mr. Ginley said. You know what that is, right?

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I rolled my eyes. Who's the head word nerd in this house?

"Yes, it's a combination of two words, like spoon+fork=spork."

"It always makes me think of the song, Kathmandu. It was one of the first songs I liked." 

Really? That song by Bob Seger was released in 1975, and it's one of the first songs you liked? I let that go, but I did call him out on the pronunciation. "Okay, but "portmanteau" doesn't rhyme with "Kathmandu," which ends in "due" not "oh."

Mr. Ginley's musings headed in another direction. "Kathmandu is in Nepal, did you know that? Didn't the Beatles go there?"

"The Beatles went to India," I corrected.

"That's where they saw the Yogi guy," he continued.

"Maharishi Mahesh Yogi," I clarified.

"My favorite Yogi is Berra," he went on.

"Was Yogi Bear named for him?" I said, picking up the thread.

"There was a lawsuit over it. Yogi Berra lost. Yogi Bear got to go on pilfering picnic baskets in Jellystone Park."

"Yogi Bear wasn't exactly a likable character," I mused. "He stole a lot of picnic baskets."

"Ya, but there's probably some sort of bear union rule, it was his job. It's what bears do, they get into food people leave sitting around. But he didn't win 10 World Series rings like Yogi Berra. Of course, neither did the Maharishi."

"Well, Yogi Bear probably didn't care because he has paws. He couldn't wear a ring anyhow," I countered. But I acknowledged the possibility that the Maharishi could have harbored a little jealousy over Berra's bling.

"Yogi Berra picked up three more World Series rings as a coach," Mr. continued. Just to keep the record straight. "So Maharishi and the Bear went 0 for 13."

As it turns out, nine of Berra's World Series rings were stolen and melted down. 

You don't suppose the Bear had anything to do with it?

Photo attribution: Algorhythms, CC BY-SA 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons