I thought I might skip the blog today because, frankly, I woke bummed. I slept well, woke early, got right up and dressed, but already grinding. Issues, issues, issues, no different than most people have. The IRS filing, the ironing that never ends, the state of the nation, the pathetic array of candidates for President, the sorting of my closet, and friends that have simply disappeared off my radar, and whether or not I still care enough to chase them down and ask what, where and why.(And I know the fallacy of run-on sentences, writers.) After a year of caring for and nurturing a stroke victim, I’m drained and empty, worried there is little left of myself, and even less of him. Sorrow dwells there.
As usual, February doldrums are bleeding deep into March, which means I just badly need spring and energy and time with people I love. That used to be easy and constant, sharing lots of time singing across 30 years with my people. The value of singing can’t be measured. It feeds the soul, bridges chasms, heals the heart, touches where ordinarily we are tightly closed. Oh yes, the admonition has been, well, find something else to do. I am still amazed that such comes from singers. How can they not know nothing else compares? Singing is soul activity. Currently I’m a songbird singing alone to the sky, solitary in my budding tree, a soloist yearning for a duet. I know that the way of things is that they end, inexorably, and like losing a limb, the phantom tugs and begs to be resurrected.
So this is shaping up to be a blog about sorrow and loss. You who know me will recall that I don’t wait well. I had a friend who, by February’s end, would appear at my door to tell me that if I can wait just a little longer, life will blossom again and I will rediscover my lost self. I will enjoy my personal spring as the world in this part of the nation will reappear and I, too will bloom. I miss that friend.
Looking back, I see that my gloom is justified. Cancer and a stroke within four years are heavy slams. Walking through the valley of the shadow is not a stroll for sissies. I fall and skin my knees, pick myself up and step forward hoping there are no more bears around the next turn. I gather up my partner and haul him with me, the reluctant victim resisting. I am required to deliver many kicks in the pants, to restart that engine repeatedly, to get to recovery. Living is effort. Finding stimulation is hard work. I wish being the house Nazi was not the necessary choice. I hear a friend speaking in my head saying I’m perfectly designed for the role. Chagrinned, I wonder if that is a criticism or a compliment.
There is payoff. Some days are filled with laughter right along with the irrational fears. My partner of the past peeks through the clouds so I know he’s still in there. The resistance to life is a little less. The thing is, I’m running out of the necessaries that will get us to the finish line.
I know what I need. A day at the beach. No. A month. Five hundred miles to Rehoboth is a reach. But it’s what I want. Right now. No waiting for hot suns and cool nights. Right now. Not Lake Erie because no salt air. Open, ranging beaches, cool sand between my toes in early mornings. Alone. By myself. Just me. Respite. Renewal. Recharging. Ready.