A report, with no images. I can’t seem to load them today! We’ve been back from the lake and living at our senior residential club for several weeks. Last night we attended a concert downstairs that was really fine, a trio of staff, (one of them a former staff member flown in for the occasion) plus a cellist from the Traverse Symphony Orchestra. Of course, you could hear a group without the flaws, but you might need to go to the Kimmel Center in Philly to do it. I’d rather stay here. In general, that’s the way I feel. There’s a level of amateurism that I wouldn’t want to sit still for, but this—very good, but not perfect-- I find human and comforting.
One thing is giving me a bit of a problem: eating with others every night, a dinner party every night. This place rightly prides itself on its good food. But I am a more solitary person. I don’t want the work (it is work for me) of being a good dinner party participant every single night. You can have a table for two, of course, but you end up talking to everyone anyway. So last night I thawed some bean soup and made a salad. We ate at home. The night before, I ordered our dinner to-go (you can do that) and we ate it at home. These are solutions. It’s all a matter of adjustment.
I have moments, I admit. What am I doing here? Then I remind myself of the benefits and settle down. I wonder if anyone has written about the adjustment to moving in with a lot of old people, even if you’re old yourself. I’m younger than most, actually. This move is mostly for Jerry. But is that true? We’re a team, and the entire team benefits when one team member is helped. Would that we could remember that about our country.
I attend an exercise class on Mondays and Wednesdays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, for six weeks, I’ll be going to a strength training class. On Fridays, Qi Gong. I’ve gone to the art appreciation lectures (in the theatre, on screen) , several times. Etc. Jerry’s in a readers’ theater group and is going to join the choir, at least for the holiday season.
Point being, we’re doing stuff, more than we would have been doing before we moved. I don’t feel nostalgia for our beautiful condo across the way.
But I’ve had a devil of a time settling my mind enough to write. I did recently write one poem, which has saved me from the slough of despond, but still. I’m looking forward to winter, the more terrible the better. Trap me in here and maybe I’ll be able to focus. My friend Ruth says she thinks when you’ve had major life changes, the marbles in your brain are all dislocated, floating around, randomly banging into each other. That’s what it’s like.
Molly’s the same. Still skittish. But peeing in the proper place.
I had no idea what a psychologically big move this would be. I don’t think it’s that I’m anxious about growing old. And death doesn’t frighten me—I’ve been close enough before to have gained a certain gentle familiarity with it. It’s not that we no longer own a house/condo. I don’t care about that. Maybe it’s all the care we get here, that reduces my sense of agency. Of doing for myself. Care that basically I’m grateful for. My poor back is especially grateful that I don’t need to stand at the counter and chop vegetables, or vacuum, or change the bed.
Living here is as different as the far side of the moon. The rest of the world is out there working and producing. Here, it’s a bit like a cruise ship. A very good cruise ship. I’d say Viking Lines. My assignment to myself is to continue to live a life of meaningful agency while floating down the Danube, being fed great food and being beautifully entertained.