Now that my definition of "home" has a whole new landscape and mindset, I will take some time to reflect on feelings about the events that have transpired over the past six months, the three before and after this transition. Fifty-seven years of residence anywhere does entitle one to some sense of ownership. I had almost forgotten that any place, being or thing acquired in a lifetime is, from the largest perspective, only loaned to us for a limited time.
Recently I heard from a friend that, upon visiting my former abode to see a doctor with offices there, she was told by a building employee, who recognized her and inquired about me, that Miss Tanner was greatly missed, that she had earned much affection and respect during her tenure. This revelation actually brought tears to my eyes as I realized that friendship is one of the treasures we are allowed to store up on earth without fear of loss.
In my new quarters, possibilities for fresh relationships flourish, from the staff to the pet sitter to my neighborly neighbors. Matter of fact, returning from brunch last Sunday I tripped on a crack in the sidewalk and was hauled to my feet by the muscular guy at the end of my hall, out for a stroll with his wife and baby. What an unforgettable beginning!
Even furnishings, luster dimmed by familiarity as well as years, now seen in the light of new surroundings, display aspects too long ignored and/or not fully appreciated. Who knew that old pieces could be revitalized by placing them in a different setting? Or that an Art Deco rug, previously hidden by a dining table now gone, could emerge as the perfect centerpiece for a studio/bedroom?
Omg! It just dawned on my emerging born again consciousness that a lady of mature years could likewise be transformed by planting her in fresh soil! Here I can really bloom, grow into whoever or whatever is waiting in the wings.
In a sense, convention locks most transient occupants of this planet into a pretty predictable pattern. Preconditioned tendencies play out as all too familiar soap operas - same old ageless stories with new additions to the cast each season. My TV Guide magazine arrived with announcements that this fall several "new" shows would feature past performers, favorite actors with somewhat older forms and faces -- still, basically a rehash warmed over and served on a recycled menu.
Thank the Lord my energy level, after plunging to previously unknown depths, is rising to what feels almost like one's old, or rather younger self. This could of course be caused by a considerable lessening of stress now that the ordeal is fading into memory. While there is doubt that dancing all night is doable, in time a semblance of spring could again enliven my step. In all fairness, the return of the weather to less sweltering conditions helped.
The key to getting through challenging times appears to be acceptance. There is a truism that excessive suffering is linked to the amount of resistance pitted against unchangeable circumstances.
Giving birth to a new life is messy, to say the least.
This gestation, begun during the spring equinox, with all the blossoming promises of fresh beginnings along with the inevitable travail associated with uncertainty, has terminated with the season of harvest and Thanksgiving.
It has also coincided with the Jewish High Holy Days, a time of repentance, reverence and, with the beginning of a new cycle, renewal. Forgiven of past errors, a blank slate lies ahead upon which I may inscribe an uncharted chapter, or at least some new blogs.
Looking around my sacred space, sunlit though it is, the days indeed grow shorter as I recall the semi-sad lyrics of "September Song," by Kurt Weill.
"The days dwindle down to a precious few... "
So who's counting? Enjoy the now! Now!