With the beginning of 2010, I have now lived through the turn of a century, new millennia, and now the beginning of the second decade of the new century. To paraphrase George Harrison, life has a way of getting on, while we’re doing other things, doesn’t it?
I’m lying quietly today – wrenched my back last night moving a chair. Now, I KNOW better than to tempt fate with heavy lifting, but in the moment, I wanted to help make our gathering of friends more intimate, so I grabbed the back of the chair to pull it in - and YIKES! I felt the back muscles lengthen as I tugged. Immediately, I knew I would be sidelined for a few days, so I’m accepting the necessary supine posture gracefully, knowing I am tending to my physical body while giving my soul food to digest.
I've had two invitations for fun activities today and could have fussed and whined about my injury, but instead, I have chosen to stay home, on the sofa, alternating heat and cold, thankful for the opportunity for solitude, and pondering 2010, which guarantees life changes.
Last year was quite the year: I started writing for a local magazine; my photography and essay were accepted by a national magazine; I had a commission for an oil portrait - and the patron was pleased; I had the good fortune to make several fun trips with fun people - two weeks in the Catskills, two weeks in Missouri with my family, and eleven days in California, kayaking and experiencing other tremendous adventures; and, then, sadly, I’m mourning the end of my fourteen-year marriage. Considering our nearly five years of dating, we’ve been intertwined in one another’s lives for more than a third of the years we’ve been on this planet. Yet, we couldn’t go forward together another day. It causes me great sadness, even while acknowledging the need for the end.
I decided a good activity for reflection would be to go through old photographs. I e-mailed some to those I thought would enjoy them and ruminated on the rest. I sent the scan of a cook book page, written by the hand of my deceased sister, to her daughter – sure she would enjoy such a message from her mom, on this day. I looked at pictures of my mom and dad in their young years together and wondered where the pictures were taken and by whom. My parents would both be 96 years of age, if they’d lived through their cancers. I wonder what stories they’d have to tell me that I never thought to ask about.
I also looked at pictures of my adventures this year, one of which included Jake, an 85 lb. pit bull that I promised to care for, should my friend Ed, who has a chronic illness, pass on. I received an email this week that Ed, who lives hundreds of miles away, is in the hospital and not doing well. Since making that vow to him, I have moved to a city with an ordinance against pit bulls, have a cat, and am not sure how I’ll cope with Jake, an 85-pound bundle of energy filled with boundless love, but a promise is a promise, and I’ll figure it out.
I also enjoyed finding a picture of me when I was 14 and the vice president of the junior high pep club. Sometimes when I’m flogging myself, and feel as if I’ve not lived up to my potential, I need to remember what a good friend once said, “It’s not how far you’ve come, but how far you had to go, to get to where you’ve come.” He was a wise and kind friend, one with whom I’ve lost touch.
Also, lately, I have become enamored with the images of locks and door knobs – one which indicates exclusion and one which allows access. The appeal depends on my frame of mind – today the knobs beckon. I seek lots of light in anticipation of all the changes 2010 brings to me. However, when I feel reclusive, the locks appeal. I have taken several photographs of vintage locks and knobs. I like to imagine all the hands, in all of the situations that threw those locks, bolting out trouble. Against what: Advancing Union/Confederate armies or merely mischievous neighbors? The, “what ifs” of history intrigue me.
Growing up in Mid-America USA in the fifties and sixties, we didn’t lock our doors – even at night. There was no need. I have a friend in Tennessee who lives in a neighborhood of transition and she still doesn’t lock her doors. I wish I had that kind of trust. I don’t. I stay behind a fortress of locks and deadbolts. Am I locking them out or locking me in? I’m not sure.
With the demise of my marriage, and the need for sanctuary, I have moved back to Mid-America USA, the city of my childhood and youth. I am reconnecting with old friends, making new ones, and spending a lot of time with my family, which I haven’t done since 1974, when I fled this city. Nothing has changed much, except for me. I am very different. My spiritual study and therapy have taken me to a healthier place. I no longer need distraction to be content. I love being within the confluence of my family and friends. I miss my daughter, who still lives and works in Tennessee, but except for that yearning, life is pretty good.
I hear a train’s whistle somewhere in the distance, warning drivers of its approach. When I was growing up, I used to listen to the train’s whistle every night, and imagine that big-black-metal caterpillar sliding into Allis-Chalmer’s Combine factory. I didn’t know what a combine was. I thought those huge, shiny things, with the orange blades and wheels the size of mountains, were some science-fiction invention going to the moon – or at least to Omaha. I didn’t know it helped put bread on the table. I’d conjured something much more mysterious.
So, this year, the table upon which my bread is shared, is back home, in Independence, Missouri, where it all started. I never thought I’d ever come back here to live. It’s been a pleasant surprise to find such peace, love and joy.
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