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The End Days

/ wvfurandroot / 1 Comment

I have perhaps twenty more years of life left in me. Maybe less. Maybe a lot less.

The years have been kind. The years have been brutal. I have experienced great joy as well as great sorrow. Through it all, I hoped for a tranquil journey. Through it all, tranquility has been elusive. Fleeting glimpses here and there. Moments of contentment were rare.

But I had hope. I believed in someday. If I were organized enough, if I worked hard, if I was a good person, if… if…if… all would be well. Life would be like boating on a placid sea with a colorful sail rippling in the gentle breeze of deep summer.

I handled the chaos. The stress. The upheaval.

I was often overwhelmed, but I continued moving forward. I tended to my child, who was and is the love of my life. I tended to my house. I tended the garden that brought me glimpses of tranquility when hummingbirds fed at the trumpet vine. I tended to my job.  I was not so good at tending to my spouse. We divorced just shy of our twentieth anniversary.

These past twenty years as a divorced, perimenopausal woman have been chaotic and heartbreaking. I often quip that my New Year’s resolution is to be bored. I have been accused of being dramatic, but the drama invaded my life uninvited. I did not conjure it, nor did I encourage the spectacle.

When sent home to quarantine during the pandemic, I hoped for three weeks. Three weeks to hole up in my house and find my equanimity. Three weeks to figure out my life. Three weeks to decompress, regroup, and emerge again fortified and ready to take on the world.

The previous year had been eventful — much of it in not a good way. Still, there were things to celebrate. I turned 60, and my only child had a small destination wedding in Spain. I was the only person on my son’s guest list able to attend. His father had health issues, his grandmothers were too old to make the trip, and so on.

With some trepidation, I planned my first solo international vacation. I raided my 401K and gifted myself an epic two weeks on the island of Ibiza. It was my 60th birthday present to me. The expense was considerable. It was also my only child’s wedding. It was an escape from the stressfest that was my life, and I pulled out all the stops. Sixty! Who would have believed such a state was possible?

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My First Experience with Fine Dining

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Shamelessly Stolen from Vintage Hawaii on Facebook

I’m standing on the boardwalk between teahouses, looking down at the koi glistening in the Honolulu sunset.

I am so thin that everyone thinks they’re being original by calling me Twiggy. This evening, we are celebrating my 8th birthday at the Pagoda Restaurant.  August 3, 1967. We didn’t know it yet, but I would soon be diagnosed with a serious thyroid problem that was rare in kids. 

There were not enough calories to keep me unhungry.  I was never sated.  Never full. My metabolism was always on overdrive due to my hyperactive thyroid.

My father, a career Marine, had been transferred to the Marine base in Kaneohe.  We – my mother, brother, and I – joined him there in May.  We also didn’t know it yet, but my father would soon ship out for another year in Vietnam.  He had just gotten back from his first tour. By the time he left the Marine Corps, he had been through four combat tours.

But on the night of my 8th birthday, we stood on the boardwalk of the Floating Pagoda Restaurant waiting for a table to open.  I was entranced by the fish, but hungry.  As usual.

I think this was my first experience with fine dining. It’s the first one I can remember. The open-air restaurant was all white tablecloths, glistening china, and cold ice water in the first goblets I’d ever seen. The Asian waitresses wore exquisitely embroidered kimonos that gleamed in the light. 

My father was finally back, and we were all together again.  I was so very happy.  I was a Daddy’s girl until the day he died at 79.

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The uterus is not a homing device.

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Photo by Mika Ruusunen on Unsplash

“The uterus is not a homing device,” Rosanne Barr screeched.  I was channel surfing and happened upon her eponymous sitcom just as she uttered that line.  I had never heard the saying before. It turns out that it is an old feminist slogan that is considered overused. 

I laughed out loud.  I did. I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the show.

I’m not much of a television watcher, but that one line hooked me.  Barr was blazingly funny and insightful until she wasn’t. I was a faithful viewer until she, and the show, went off the rails.

Neither my now-ex-husband nor my son can find their own asses with two hands and a flashlight.  I was the designated Finder of Lost Things. By the time I heard Rosanne say, “The uterus is not a homing device,” I was weary of always and forever spending my free time trying to find their lost stuff.

Something snapped, and one time, I quietly responded, “I don’t know where your jockstrap is. I put it away the last time I used it.” And that was my standard response unless the missing item was something important to me.

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An open letter to my 7 am writing group

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NOTE: I belong to a writing group that meets every morning on Zoom, at 7 a.m., except for Saturdays, when we meet at 8 a.m. We also meet on holidays, Sundays, and weekdays. This group has been my sanctuary—my safe space to grow as a writer.

Dear Ones:

“The universe provides” It always has—goes along with “this too shall pass.”

I understand it’s common with many artists, writers included, that those closest to them are the least interested in their work.  The “that’s nice, honey” phenomenon.  With one notable exception, this has been true for me.  My family couldn’t give a flying fig about my two books, the two I’m working on, or my blog.

They accept that I’m a writer and take some pride in telling people that, but have no interest in actually reading or even hearing about my passion projects.  And so, the universe conspired until I found my tribe. 

I get encouragement from the most unlikely places. 

It tickles me pink that somewhere in Malaysia, some teacher uses one of my blog posts in his or her English class.  I reposted e.e. cummings’s in time of daffodils – a favorite of mine with one of my photos of my beloved daffodils. 

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