Annoying Autobiographical Pause #335
There are times that I feel like life is like the movie Where Dreams May Come, where colors and sounds are amplified and euphemisms line the streets of heaven and hell. Where hard work, heartache, true love and perseverance are finally rewarded by the strong actions of the lead characters although sacrifices must be made.
You know, something like that.
Then there are other times it’s bleak like a Mad Max movie before Tina Turner threw Mel Gibson into the Thunderdome. The first Mad Max movie was one where it started out with regular people who headed down a slow path into a deep pit. Washed out and gray is how I see that first film.
We just know it’s not going to end well.
Yesterday was scenario #2.
I realize that life is not a movie and I guess it’s how you look at it, where your heart is at that moment. I was sitting at Squirrel Farm this morning after an atrociously bad evening that spiraled out of control where I needed sanctuary and peace if only for a little while. And it was if all my fears were sitting on the patio with me as I sat in the early morning sun with my cup of coffee and a head too full to grab onto one thought.
I saw a cropduster rise over a field and a fox came out of a culvert which surprised me. It was more colorful than yesterday, where much of my day was dimmed by the gray cloud I felt sitting over me. This morning, as each fear weighed like an anvil, the yellow of the plane and the fiery determination of the small fox scavenging for food less than 20 yards from me reminded me that some days have color and resonance and some days just do not.
Flight and the fiery determination of that fox are things I do understand.
I am better today but I am still seeking the path I must walk down. I no longer believe in certain things though, and it saddens me that I’ve lost that part of my youth that I had up until recently. Time, it seems as we grow older, does take some things from us.
I hope that all your reflection and focus leads you to some clarity. Its tough sometimes, but the sun does come out eventually.
[...] over coffee with a splash of sunlight. I realize that life is not a movie and I guess it’s how you look at it, where your heart is at [...]
Since I moved back to Tennessee seven years ago, I’ve had cause, as you have, to think about the things time has taken from me. I relate to this. You are not alone in this journey. Sometimes that’s all we have: the knowledge we are not alone on a well-worn path we’d rather not go down.
In Wal-Mart last night, I was pushing my mama in a wheelchair (arthritis, bad knee), and a “girl” who lived next door to me when we were kids spotted me and came over to say hey. Our paths rarely cross. I always think of her as the energetic preteen girl I played cards and softball with and ate cornbread broken into glasses of buttermilk with. She exploded that illusion last night by launching into a tale about her recent knee replacement. I was jerked back to the reality that we are now in our fifties.
Two “girls” I graduated from high school with walked past us, turned around, and came back. They always recognize me. I never recognize them. My old classmates. These two looked the worse for wear, and I felt a twinge of sadness. Loss.
Being back in my hometown has been a never-ending trip down memory lane. I read the faces of the people I’ve known for more than half a century and see myself reflected back to me. I hear the unspoken: the common feelings as we look back — and ahead. What we miss, what we dread.
I don’t have the urge to leave that I once had. I was a wild girl in many ways. Now, though, some part of me has stopped looking for risk and adventure and is more content with the familiar. It feels safe. Because I feel I’m losing strength, though I am stronger than I’ve ever been.
I’ve let some dreams go. The road trip I was going to make to New England — I don’t think that’s gonna happen now. My husband has too many heart issues and can’t be too far from the doctors.
A certain buoyancy of spirit is gone. The weights that life has laid, the deflations of a thousand disappointments — they take their toll. Some days I think that simply treading water is a worthy goal, a major accomplishment.
Most of life is just showing up — for life. You just have to keep showing up. Somehow things take care of themselves if you keep your part of that bargain.
I push my body to keep moving. I walk several miles a day, haul water and more on the farm, force the body to become stronger by using it. This strength does transfer to the mind and the spirit. Keep moving. Don’t stand still for too long.
Good luck.