Life As Now

Sorry I missed you yesterday. I woke too early to write, and then didn't get back to it. No soul slashing drama, just missed a day, which happens once in a while.

I can hear the crickets and the frogs outside this morning. It is actually late night; it is 1 AM. The unicorn meat eating cats leap through their window. The dog, Max, is sensible. He is asleep.

While I was gone yesterday, I trimmed the spent flowers from the pink zinnia, the burgundy dahlia, and the yellow daisies. I watered, guaranteeing a rain. And did it rain, later about twilight. The water poured from the sky as if from a pitcher, and ran in the streets to form small lakes. Now everything is washed and new.

These days are definitely a preamble to Fall. It is an early autumn for us, to match the late Spring we had. The grasses of the field haven't turned yet to their winter gold, but something about the light moves toward a change in the seasons.

 It is like my life, that moves now more toward the end, than it is closer to the beginning. Something about memory preserves me yet, like a leaf in amber. I still remember a green childhood spent riding my bicycle along familiar paths in twilight. If I try hard, I remember what it is like to be 16, 26, 40 years of age, as if it were yesterday. I remember age 6 and the first day of school. That's what I think of, in Fall. The winds and the leaves whirl together to create one memory, of all the starts of school I have been through. 

But now, today, I bring my thought back to today, to the Now. I have been too melancholy, and it is too close to my last drunk to contemplate the past, with any feelings of easiness. I love Fall, and the start of Winter, with it's holidays. I have now lived in this small valley since 1976--- 37 years. It starts to feel like home, when the leaves change, and the late summer twilight sets in. Dusk at 8 o'clock at night is perfect, but that will change, too. But for today, for now, it is perfect.

There was a good AA meeting last night, but no borderline personality therapy group today. The therapist is in NYC, attending classes. I am slightly frightened when my therapist goes on vacation, or leaves town for any reason, but I have known my shrink, my psychiatrist for so very long, that I know I can go to him, if a crisis occurs.

Yesterday, I wished I could call my Mother on the phone, and tell her I am ok. All I can do now is to smell her Chanel No. 5, and dream of being enfolded in her loving arms. I find that looking at pictures of her, at this 3 years after her death, is still too much. A glimpse of a picture here or there, is one thing. But sitting down and looking at page after page of her life is just more than I am capable of, at my state of mind. In this Now.

There is a lovely picture of her, in a light green ballgown, taken when she was 16 years of age, that hangs on my wall. It is a deeply beautiful portrait photograph, but it has been a constant in my life. It has always hung on some wall of our house. It alone, of all the pictures of her, has been static in my life. It carries nothing of the pain of nostalgia, that looking at her life in pictures, carries. It simply exists. It simply is. It is a smallish dose of her that I can handle, everyday.

There is no similar picture of my Father. His father died when he was 11, and his teenage years were very unhappy, and less prosperous than my Mother's. There is a good photo portrait of the two of them, taken about 20 years ago, but I cannot hang it on my wall. It is what was, and is no more. If I hung it, I would brood over that time in my life, and I have moved on. Only love remains, and memories.

So much for life in the Now.

This morning, I do not think of drinking or cutting. The coffee is good, and I splurged a bit on some more mineral water. The frogs have stopped singing, in this night time of day. The cats wander in and out, and the dog sleeps. My life is now measured by the moon, and it goes quicker, before that time of my life passes, forever.

I am going through a rite of passage, written on my body. I now have wrinkles, but the broken right pinkie finger reminds me of being 13 years of age, when it all started. Every woman goes through 'the Change' and it is a rich experience not addressed by my doctors or society at large, except as some excruciating event. But, what I find, is that it is simply something outside of public knowledge, that women share together. We have so many more things to discuss, now. And so, I write.