We’ve only been at the lake one day. It’s exhausting, more and more every year, to pack the things we need for a long stay. It’s almost like moving. Every year I think it’s too much, that I’m happy where we are, but then the moment we get settled in our tiny house (call it a guest house if you want to be fancy) with the water only a few feet outside, hemlocks and cedars between, I’m happy. It’s hard not to be happy. Loons cry overhead. True, the number of creatures is diminished, which makes me both sad and angry, but we appreciate what’s here.
I have to say, coming up on my monumental 80th birthday, that I’m tireder than in days of yore. I haven’t yet gotten in the water. I was so tired when we arrived, and it was steaming hot, I was dripping with sweat, but just didn’t have the energy to have a swim before bedtime. A wet washcloth was all I could manage before I collapsed on the bed, not even reading before we turned off the light.
We’re turning over more and more of the chores to our children. This year I’m not making beds after each group leaves. I’m going to take dirty sheets to the laundromat and let them wash and fold them. Then I’ll put the folded sheets on the beds. The “kids” can take over from there.
The thing about writing (subject change) is that unless you’re in the middle of a novel, or essay, or play, you don’t know what’s coming next. A poem is usually a short thing, fraught with some degree of anxiety, small or great, about finding the next line, or in fact, the next poem. Not that I live in constant anxiety, but yes, I do, actually. Not crippling, but It’s there. Anxiety is my friend. I defend it against the bad rap it often has. We’re cautious friends. We can be too close. But the right degree of anxiety is like a spark plug that prompts the engine to start. Imagine being so satisfied, un-anxious, that you sink into your recliner (should you have one) and watch TV all day.
Anxiety gets me moving. Lots of other things get me moving, of course, but what’s wrong with a little undifferentiated fear? It’s part of my DNA just as much as the shape of my nose. I could meditate until my legs lock in the lotus position (not likely), but that wouldn’t make me free of anxiety. It WILL, though enable me to treat it with respect and some degree of kindness. I can talk to a therapist until I’m hoarse, and I may see the roots of some of my anxiety, but I’ll still have it.
Here I am with the beautiful lake outside, but what I know is that the hemlocks are in danger, the lake didn’t freeze solid this last winter as it “should,” and the birds are much diminished. If I had no anxiety, I’d be dead. And as for that, I WILL be dead, sooner than later. I’d say that could be another reason to be anxious.
Ollie, exhibiting few signs of anxiety.
But I’m pretty much happy! Anxiety and I live in this same tentative house, my heart beating, blood circulating, no cancer at the moment. I’ve ordered a new swimsuit to flatter my old hips and stomach. I plan to put it on it a little later today and see how much I can swim after my back surgery, how much flexibility I still have.
I usually don’t use my own poems here, because that means they’re technically published and can’t be published elsewhere. Okay, so. I sacrifice this one. I have a small series going. Here’s one:
June 22
I can’t explain why it is a relief to me that my skin
is getting old. Something about nothing to protect.
A mass of wrinkles and brown spots. This is what
you get. A lot has happened to me, and now
you can see the results. This morning is all misty,
as if the sky had turned on the Zoom feature
that softly blurs the face, so you’re forever young,
which is also a song by Bob Dylan. Frankly,
it’s too much work to be forever young, and
in the end it’s a waste of time. See these arms?
They drape like cloth. I’m already pulling away
from myself. I’m going to be Something Else,
like you say “You’re Something Else!” meaning
wow, look how amazing you’ve become.