Summer Solstice

 Belarus Ivan Kupala Day

Today marks the Summer Solstice, the first day of summer and the longest day of the year. Up North, where I live, the sky will still be light close to midnight. I love this time of year, and I especially love this day, but it’s always tempered with a mix of sadness, because tomorrow the cycle reverses and the days will begin to grow shorter.

Solstice celebrations started with the Pagans, and then the Christians got into the act with St. John’s Day. In Finland it’s called Juhannus and it’s one of their major holidays. There they make huge bonfires out of any cast-off wood, including old boats, and the flames reach incredible heights.

In my earliest memories, I can see huge Juhannus bonfires (kokko) up and down a Lake Superior beach where the Finns, including my aunt and uncle, had summer camps. Singing and drinking went on far into the night, and we kids opened the windows to our room on the upper floor and fell asleep to the sounds of three-part harmonizing, as our parents and their camp friends pulled out their entire repertoire and sang, slowly, sweetly, a capella.

They’re all gone now, all those people so full of life and promise, but the memories live on. Will there be bonfires on that beach on this night, people gathered around singing and celebrating the longest day, the start of summer, the hope of new life springing from the earth? 

Oh, I hope so. . .

Summer Solstice 2018 After 10 PM

Last light, Summer Solstice. I took this just after 10 PM on June 21,  2018

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Snow in the Woods, Ice on the bay. It’s May

We’re home! Ventured across the water last week and came into a warm house, with running water and everything! Our grandson Mike came ahead of us, slogging through snow and mud to work out all the kinks. The week before we thought we would be back, our nephew Randy scooped out the driveway and did the walkways with the snowblower, only to wake up one morning to another foot of snow!

Between the two of them they pumped out a ton of wet stuff in the crawlspace and Mike put on the waders and got the tap water running. It’s always a crapshoot when we come back from a winter away. This year,  in spite of the late snow, opening up was relatively easy.

Mother Nature is not kind to unheated cabins in the north country.  Walls crack, floors warp, and musty, sour smells tell us we’re bad,  bad people, abandoning our home to animals and moisture and who knows what else?

When we leave we shut everything down. We pack away canned goods and empty the fridge, drain the  water from pipes, and pull the plugs on everything electrical. We’ve learned the hard way that that’s how it has to be done. We came home once to pounds of pork and chicken rotted and stinking IN THE FREEZER. Some time during the winter too many days and nights below zero overwhelmed the sensors and they shut down.  We didn’t do that again!

We’ve come home to broken pipes more than once, so now we drain them almost dry and fill the elbows and low spots with RV antifreeze. All of this takes time but it’s worth it not to come home to unpleasant surprises.

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Ed lays a fire in the woodstove before we leave so it’s simply a matter of lighting a match when we get here.  Our propane furnace is an ancient behemoth of a thing and if it starts up the first time we push the magic button, it’s a miracle. We’d rather have a cozy fire, anyway, and it’s nice to have it warm when the furnace guy comes to fix the beast.

The amount of snow in the yard this year was startling, considering it’s MAY, but it’s almost all gone now.

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The bay was frozen solid last week but it’s breaking up, too. A fox and a band of deer ventured out onto the ice last week but now we have mergansers and goldeneyes swimming around in what little open water they can find.

sunset and ice 5 7 18

Spring comes late to the north woods, but our skies are electric blue, our days are getting longer, and the chickadees, the woodpeckers, the loons, the cranes are making joyous noise.

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All’s right in our little corner of the world.

At least for now.

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Writer Desperately Seeking Agent. Looking For Somebody Nice.

Okay, It’s come to this:

I need help.

I’m a writer. I’ve been a writer for most of my life. But if being a “writer” means you’re getting paid for your work, then I’m not that. Not any longer. There was a time when I could list my occupation as “writer” on our 1040A, but those days are long gone.

I’m just going to say this, hoping I don’t cry: I don’t remember the last time someone paid me for my work. Those days are such ancient history I  can barely remember what it was like to hold that check in my hand, kissing it wildly before cashing it. (Do they still pay by check? I wouldn’t know.)

I had a nice little writing career going there for a while. (Want to see my Linkedin profile? It’s right here.) Yes, I call myself “professional”, but it’s getting harder and harder to say it with a straight face when nobody wants to pay me.

I wrote an entire chapter on marketing once, in a book sold through Writer’s Digest, but whatever I wrote back then isn’t helping me now. Not now, not since the Internet exploded and nearly every writer struggling to be paid gave up long ago and took to begging venues to publish their works for free.

When I was teaching creative writing, again before the dreaded internet, I gave my students advice like this: If you want to get paid for your work, never, ever, ever give it away. Have some pride! Write well enough to be paid, expect to be paid, and you WILL be paid.

I said that.

You may or may not have seen my other, bigger blog, Ramona’s Voices. It’s about as liberal as it can get and not for everybody. I guess. (I don’t hide how I feel about that squatter in the White House, so if you’re a Trump fan, fair warning: Don’t go there.) It appears at a few other places, and I love that it does, but I can’t lie–I would love it even more if actual money changed hands.

I’ve been writing that blog for more than nine years, since January 20, 2009, when Barack Obama took the oath of office and became our president.  I thought I would stop writing it on January 20, 2017, when that guy Trump crossed his fingers behind his back and swore to uphold the office of the presidency.

But how could I stop? I set out to save the country and I failed miserably. Under my watch, despite my yowlings, my pathetic attempts at humor, my blatant wishing upon stars, I couldn’t convince enough voters to take the high road and throw the bum out.  Trump won.

Or so they say.

My plan all along, once I saw that some of my pieces didn’t suck, was to go through all eight of the Obama years, pull out the best, and publish them in book form.  The problem–and I knew this–is I’m a nobody. Why would anyone read a compilation of blog posts that hardly anyone read the first time around? Maybe they wouldn’t, but the reason I wanted to put them in book form is that I’ve never in my life published a book. And I really want to.

And then there’s this blog. Some of the stuff here maybe doesn’t suck, either.  I might be partial but I kind of like this one. And this one. And this one. Oh, and this one. And a bunch of others.

I  have two other books in manuscript form, almost finished, crying to be published. Plus, before I leave this planet, I have a hankering to be a syndicated Op-Ed columnist.

So you can see why I have to get cracking.

But I need help. I’m a writer who shudders at the thought of self-promotion. I want to write, I want people to read what I write, and I want to get paid for it.  I do. But I want someone else to be my pusher.

Can anybody out there help me? Do you know a…let’s say…an agent…(cough) who might take me on? One who can figure out how to get someone to like what I do and maybe even pay me for it? Can you put in a good word for me?

I wouldn’t ordinarily go this route–and I never would have recommended it to my students–but–and here’s another thing that might stop this whole plan in its tracks–I’m getting really old.

I know this is a route no one in their right mind would recommend, but it’s far better than Plan A, which was to paint myself in purple prose, make enormous wings out of my old manuscripts, and soar off of the roof of the Algonquin Hotel. During rush hour.

So can you help? I’m really a very nice person and not nearly as pathetic as this might seem. I can give references.

I think.

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Earth Day: A Revisit

Today is Earth Day in America.  The first, 48 years ago, was a big deal.  It was 1970.  We were in the mood to celebrate the earth and to warn against the destruction of our natural places.  Now we’re watching again as our supposed caretakers are licking their lips at the thought of all that land open to rape-for-profit.  

I wrote and published this piece eight years ago so you’ll note some outdated references.  I present it again today as a history, a warning, and a celebration of Earth Day.  (You’ll notice I’ve avoided updating it to reflect the Trump administration’s wholesale attacks on our lands and our environment. It sickens me to a point so far beyond the usual heartburn I’m admitting here and now that I’m just not up to it.)

The earth is our only home.  We owe it to her–and to ourselves–to keep her healthy. At some point we have to heed the warnings. We’re at the stage now where the earth would be better off without us.

On April 22, 1970, 20 million people, 2,000 colleges and universities, 10,000 grammar and high schools and 1,000 communities mobilized for the first nationwide demonstrations on environmental problems. Congress adjourned for the day so members could attend Earth Day events in their districts. The response was nothing short of remarkable, and the modern American environmental movement took off.

My major objective in planning Earth Day 1970 was to organize a nationwide public demonstration so large it would, finally, get the attention of the politicians and force the environmental issue into the political dialogue of the nation. It worked. By the sheer force of its collective action on that one day, the American public forever changed the political landscape respecting environmental issues.

Sen. Gaylord Nelson, Dem. Wisc – Founder of Earth Day.

Created by Walt Kelly for Earth Day, 1970

I remember that first Earth Day, April 22, 1970.  The scope of it was astonishing and really surprising. It was a grassroots movement in the best sense of the phrase, and we all felt good about it.  (Most of us, that is. The day after, The Daughters of the American Revolution branded  the Earth Day commemoration “distorted” and “subversive”.  (It didn’t help that the first Earth Day happened to fall on the 100th anniversary of Vladimir Lenin’s birth.)

What Gaylord Nelson originally proposed was a nationwide teach-in on school campuses.  He chose April 22 because it would fall after Easter break but before final exams.  It was spring.  The earth was renewing itself.  Environmentalism was gearing up and in motion, and it was a fine time to give the earth a day.  Richard Nixon was president and, while he didn’t participate in any of the day’s events (maybe because a damned Democrat came up with the idea), he was actively talking about attacks on the environment and the steps the government would need to combat them.  Pollution was a big issue already, and steps had been taken to de-smog the cities.  It was working.  (Nelson had actually talked to JFK in the early 60s about the need to draw attention to the environment, and a day to commemorate had been thrown out there then. Nothing happened.)

Industry was king, and the environmentalists, alarmed at water, ground and air pollution levels, were talking to brick walls (when they weren’t batting their heads against them).  In 1962, the year Rachel Carson published “Silent Spring”, 750 people died in London’s smog.  In 1965, four days of inversion held down a cloud of filthy air that killed 80 people in New York City.  In 1969, Cleveland’s Cuyahoga River caught fire. Earlier that year, an oil platform six miles out from Santa Barbara, California, blew out, spilling 200,000 gallons of oil, creating an 800 square mile oil slick that settled on 35 miles of California shoreline.  Almost 4,000 birds were killed, along with fish, seals and dolphin.

Enough had finally become enough, and under Lyndon Johnson and a congress that could see clearly now (even though the rest of us were still lost in a choking, eye-watering, salmon-colored, man-made smog), we saw a Clean Air Act, a Clean Water act, a National Wilderness Preservation System, a Wild and Scenic Rivers Act, a National Trails System Act, and, for what it was worth, a  National Environmental Policy.

That all changed, of course, when Ronald “A tree is a tree” Reagan became president.  For the Department of Interior, he chose James Watt, a notorious anti-environmentalist, to head it. He chose Ann Gorsuch, another determined anti-earthling, to head the Environmental Protection Agency.  What a laugh that was–or might have been, if it weren’t so serious.  They were chosen for the same cynical reasons George W. Bush chose his department heads–so that regulatory agencies could, from the inside, be forced to stop regulating.

Gale Norton, GWB’s choice for Secretary of Interior was called “even worse” than James Watt, by the Defenders of Wildlife.  I shuddered over that one.  I remembered James Watt, and I thought nobody could cause as much havoc on our little section of the earth as that little man did.  I thought we had learned something along the way.  I thought all those Arbor Days and Earth Days and global warming warnings had taught us all something.  Some of us obviously weren’t listening.

But now we’re in the era of Obama and former Colorado senator Ken Salazar is the Interior secretary.  The jury is still out on him; his voting record was either for or against the environment, depending on what I’m assuming was the alignment of the stars or the fullness of the moon.  I don’t know.   But he’s showing signs of bucking the oil industry, and he isn’t necessarily doing what his naysayers thought he would, so I’m willing to cut him some slack for a while. Lisa Jackson is the current head of the EPA. She’s a chemical engineer, which seems like a start, and she said this in Newsweek:  “The difference between this administration and the last is that we don’t believe we have an option to do nothing.”  I like that.  But she seems to think there’s no cause for alarm over offshore drilling.  That makes me more than a little nervous, considering the above-mentioned Santa Barbara incident, and the 11-million-gallon Exxon-Valdez incident, and today’s oil-rig explosion off the coast of Louisiana.  (I hope she remembers that the EPA is 40 years old this year, too.  In fact it’s a few months older than Earth Day–all the more reason for it to be the designated caretaker.)

This Earth Day, 40 years after the first, got a lot of play in the news and on the internet, but I was hoping to see crowds out there giving it their best.  I didn’t expect teabags, of course, but what I wouldn’t give for a sea of tie-dyes and peace signs and flower garlands…

The aroma of Pachouli…

All those things I thought were pretty silly in the day are looking downright good to me as I take note of the day we promised to give Earth a chance.

Sunset where I live

 “Sometimes I wonder if Lewis and Clark shouldn’t have been made to file an environmental impact study before they started west, and Columbus before he ever sailed.  They might never have got their permits.  But then we wouldn’t have been here to learn from our mistakes, either.  I really only want to say that we may love a place and still be dangerous to it.  We ought to file that environmental impact study before we undertake anything that exploits or alters or endangers the splendid, spacious, varied, magnificent and terribly fragile earth that supports us.  If we can’t find an appropriate government agency with which to file it, we can file it where an Indian would have filed it–with our environmental conscience, our slowly maturing sense that the earth is indeed our mother, worthy of our love and deserving of our care.”

Wallace Stegner, Where the Bluebird Sings to the Lemonade Springs

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I Can Go Home Again. Right?

It’s April 17 and I’m stranded, stuck, marooned, and, for all intents, homeless. I’m not on the streets, nothing like that. I’m at my daughter’s house (a lovely place to be), but home is 350 miles away and I haven’t seen it since way last December, when we left to go snowbirding down south.

We should have been back home a couple of weeks ago. That’s how we do it, Normally. But, as you may have heard, there’s nothing normal about this year. Winter refuses to go away.

I want to go home to spring. This should be spring, even above the 45th parallel. Spring!

Another foot of snow dumped on our island last night, two days after our nephew used his heavy machinery to scoop out our driveway. (He’s getting cabin fever up there. I think this is his way of enticing us to come home…)

Randy cleared the driveway 4 16 18

Our driveway two days ago, 4/15

 

Our driveway today:

our driveway April 17 2018

Our driveway today, 4/17

Big snows and icy roads all over Michigan. The highways heading up north are a mess and travel advisories are the Big News of the Day.

So here I am, homesick.  I’m spending the day indoors getting all nostalgic for the old homestead.

Makes me want to cry!

But I’m doing it, anyway.

 

This is what April at home should look like:

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Our house April, 2007

 

This is my gnome house. (I take it all down before winter, thank goodness.) I hide it in the woods and when children come they love to go and look for it.

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The Gnome House

 

Here are my garden gnomes having a confab on our sunny deck. (Sigh…)

gnomes at confab

Garden gnomes

 

This one is checking out the toadstools. (It just occurred to me that I’ve never named them. That may be a good thing. Nothing worse than pissing off a gnome. Or so I’ve heard.)

gnome and toadstools closeup

Gnome with Toadstools

 

This is my favorite sunrise picture. Notice there are no signs of snow anywhere. Or ice on the bay. And I must have been there because I took the picture.  (Sniffle):

Blue Heron at sunrise-001

Blue Heron at Sunrise

 

Can’t wait to be able to hang clothes on the line again.

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A perfect drying day

 

Will fawns be born before it’s warm enough? I worry.

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Fawn close by in the grass

 

Will the trillium be late this year?

Trillium field

Trillium in May

 

When will we be able to look for morels?

morel in our woods

Morel in our woods

Ah, me.

So sad.

I’ll cross this bridge when I come to it. (It was closed to all but cars yesterday. High winds, poor visibility, and ice. I’ll keep you posted.)

Mackinaw Bridge sunrise

The Mighty Mac

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About Blogging: Turns Out It’s Personal

blogging cartoon

I’ve been avoiding this place. You may have noticed. It’s not because I don’t like it here, I like it just fine. But here’s the thing: I’m intimidated by my own blog. Honest to God. I didn’t know it until this morning, around 4:30 AM, while I was reading Shonda Rhimes’ terrific book, “Year of Yes”.

I won’t go into a lot of detail because this is about me and not her (I said that??), but Shonda’s year of yes came about because she was a perfectionist deep into her job (She OWNS Shondaland, producing and writing “Grey’s Anatomy” and “Scandal”), but found there was no Shonda there. She decided to do a year of saying “yes” to things that challenged her, including, among other things, public speaking, and being a mom her kids might like to get to know. She pushed herself to do the things she thought she could never do and found a kind of happiness because she did.

And now I want to do that. Push myself. Not for fame or glory. Not any more. I’m eighty now. That train, if it was waiting for me, has long since left the station. But if I’m a writer–and I think I am–I’ll never stop trying to write in a way that will find readers. All writers write to be read. It’s our cross to bear.

My political blog, Ramona’s Voices, has a scant following and I appreciate those who’ve stuck with me, but I don’t write there as often as I did, mainly because anything I have to say about the Dread Trump and his enablers is already covered ever so much better somewhere else. I admit I’d rather read what others have to say than to keep repeating my own narrow mantra, which seems to be one of two thoughts: What the hell is going ON?? and What the hell are we going to do about it? (Yes, I said “the Dread Trump”. If I’ve disappointed you by saying it, we were probably never going to be friends, anyway. I’m sorry. Not sorry. I’m not.)

Anyway…I highly recommend Shonda’s book. She writes–no surprise–like Meredith Grey speaks. (She invented Meredith.) But she’s a real person with real fears, real needs, real observations about how easy it is for an introvert (yes…) to take the easy way out.  I could quote from her book all day, but again this is about me, not her.  So just this one thing:

Well.

I couldn’t find just this one thing. Shonda Rhimes writes, as I said, like Meredith Gray talks, in that fluid, lyrical, poetic way where you swear you can hear music in the background; so, as inspired as I find I am, I couldn’t pull out a short quote that wasn’t part of a larger story. I couldn’t. But believe me when I say I was inspired.

I’m here, aren’t I?

I’m a writer, an essayist, a columnist. I’ve dabbled in fiction and poetry. But when I call myself a blogger, it’s a whole different ball game. A blog–this kind of blog, this blog right here–is the kind of blog that’s supposed to get personal.

The word “blog” is short for “weblog”, which is itself a corruption of “web log”. A “log” in the real world is a method of keeping track of items or events. Ship’s logs. Aircraft logs. That kind of thing. But when the web opened up to everybody, the weblog craze took off and suddenly everyone saw the chance to tell everyone else about their lives. Every little detail of their lives. In public. There must have been millions of blogs. Maybe there still are. I don’t know. I admit I rarely read a personal blog. Yet here I am, trying to write one.

I started Constant Commoner to get away from politics and write about everything else going on in my life. I’ve written about my age, about my cancer, about my writing–and every time I write about those things I sort of demand that my readers don’t feel anything.

Damndest thing. I never realized it before, but I do that. I talked about my age, finishing up with something about not giving my age another thought. It’s just a number. (So why did I bring it up?)

I talked about my cancer, demanding not an ounce of pity. None at all. In fact , I seemed to be saying, pretend you never read this. No big deal. How was YOUR day?

I even wrote a piece called “A Case Against Using Your Blog As a Journal”. I just read it again. I was right about some things, but so, so wrong about the overall premise. I wrote it as if all blogs were meant to be professional works, written only by professional writers, which is not just claptrap but hogwash, too. I insulted bloggers everywhere by insisting there should be a rule book for blogs.

Here’s the thing about blogs: They’re not mandatory. We don’t have to read them, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t exist. Of course they should. They make their bloggers happy.

Getting personal is hard for me. I like my privacy, I hate bragging, and I don’t cotton much to drawing attention to my flaws.  Beyond a steady, “What on earth was I thinking?” I’m not much for navel-gazing. I have no real education or bona fides yet I love to give my opinion. On everything. I must be really annoying that way. (Fishing for compliments is not my thing, either. You’re not required to respond.)

I’ve never been able to figure myself out. I don’t know what’s expected of me here. I have this space and I enter it as if it’s not my own. I’m not comfortable here. I really would like to change that.

I’ve made all sorts of promises about what I want to do here, and haven’t kept a single one, so I’m making no promises about what’s going to happen here. I’m just going to blog as if this is a blog and I’m the blogger. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m just going to call it a day for now, but I’ve got some ideas…

I do.

Posted in Humor, Inspiration, Memoir, On Writing and Media, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Thoughts on Becoming Eighty

little girl typing

I’ve been eighty for five months now. In some quarters that’s ancient. I’m fine with it.

When I turned eighty, back in September, I thought I should be sad, or horrified, or at least exhausted, but it came just days after I finished 30 hits of radiation to keep the dread cancer away. Turning eighty seemed like a victory to me.

I’ve found since then that there’s something about turning eighty that begs the inevitable navel-gazing among octogenarian writers. (See below) I felt the urge myself on that auspicious day, but thought better of it. What could I say that didn’t sound like bragging? Not dying beforehand is really my only contribution.

The big deal about turning an advanced-age milestone is not just the need to explore the life we’ve lived to look for something worthwhile; sometimes it’s a reminder to use the limited time left to Do Those Big Things.  To this I plead guilty.  I might say it’s a bad thing but I’m convinced it’s what keeps me hanging around.  I have to believe I’m not done yet.

The writer Ursula LeGuin died last week. She was 88 years old. A brilliant writer who, in her later years, still had plenty to say. She wrote often about aging, no doubt because it was something she woke up to every day. (I know the feeling.)

Here she is, at 81, after answering a Harvard alumni questionnaire. One of the questions was, “What do you do in your spare time?”: (Lifted from Maria Popova’s wonderful “Brain Pickings“.)

The opposite of spare time is, I guess, occupied time. In my case I still don’t know what spare time is because all my time is occupied. It always has been and it is now. It’s occupied by living.

An increasing part of living, at my age, is mere bodily maintenance, which is tiresome. But I cannot find anywhere in my life a time, or a kind of time, that is unoccupied. I am free, but my time is not. My time is fully and vitally occupied with sleep, with daydreaming, with doing business and writing friends and family on email, with reading, with writing poetry, with writing prose, with thinking, with forgetting, with embroidering, with cooking and eating a meal and cleaning up the kitchen, with construing Virgil, with meeting friends, with talking with my husband, with going out to shop for groceries, with walking if I can walk and traveling if we are traveling, with sitting Vipassana sometimes, with watching a movie sometimes, with doing the Eight Precious Chinese exercises when I can, with lying down for an afternoon rest with a volume of Krazy Kat to read and my own slightly crazy cat occupying the region between my upper thighs and mid-calves, where he arranges himself and goes instantly and deeply to sleep. None of this is spare time. I can’t spare it. What is Harvard thinking of? I am going to be eighty-one next week. I have no time to spare.

In that same Brain Pickings article, Maria Popova asked: “What is it about eighty being such a catalyst for existential reflection? Henry Miller modeled it, Donald Hall followed, and Oliver Sacks set the gold standard.” What, indeed. I’m finding this stuff all over the place now. If I thought I was unique, forget about it. It’s been done.

When I was around 50 I read May Sarton’s “At Seventy, A Journal”. I remember thinking how brave she was to still be pondering and writing and worrying about her future. At seventy!  I imagined, I guess, that at seventy I would be sitting in my rocking chair, wrapped in a shawl, just….sitting.

That was thirty years ago. How young and foolish that girl was!

Age, of course, means nothing. Living does. At eighty my time is probably more limited than yours, but none of us survives this world. I could waste a lot of time planning for at least another 10 years, only to throw the whole thing out of whack by being tossed out of a rollercoaster.

Today I’ll no doubt do my usual things. The time is not so precious, now that I’m eighty, that I’ll work to make every moment meaningful. That would be silly. But always in the back of my mind there’s a count-down calendar somewhere with my name on it.

This is new for me. Two things–having cancer and turning eighty–woke me up to the realities of unexpected happenstance.  Fourteen months ago I was feeling pretty smug about my health; about how strong and alert I was for my age. Then came the biopsy and the diagnosis, the surgery, the chemo, the radiation. Add to that Donald Trump’s insane and unpredictable rise to power, and I should be cooked by now.  Steamed to mush. Fried to a crisp.

But the truth is, I feel good.  I’m not in my rocking chair wrapped in a shawl, just sitting. I’m out there fighting the good fight politically, determined to get my writing skills back to where they were pre-chemo brain. (Which could be pure delusion, but still…)

I’m traveling, I’m cooking, I’m cleaning, I’m walking the terrain. I’m writing. I’m loving the love I’m feeling from family and friends and sending it back a thousandfold.

Am I  old? I can’t tell. Some days I feel pretty damned feisty.  I love what Madeleine L’Engle (who also lived to be 88) said about age: “The great thing about getting older is that you don’t lose all the other ages you’ve been.”

Or, as George Bernard Shaw said, “We don’t stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing.”

So I guess what I’m trying to say is, can you come play with me? It’s not dark yet. Plenty of daylight left.

Posted in aging, Art and Artists, On Writing and Media | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments