Hello reader. Today, I am sitting in my chair outside in the sun; it is 7:45 in the morning. What a lovely time of day. The birds are as loud as always, and the air smells like the sweetest mix of dewy rose petals and fresh earth. I have a cup of coffee on the side table beside me. I made this cup very well; the sweetness and richness are the closest I’ve come to achieving perfection in my lifetime. I’m glad I’ve at least become quite capable of doing the simple things by now.
I am in one of those moods that I get in quite regularly these days. It is one of reflection and nostalgia that fills my heart and body with an emotion that is difficult to explain. Sometimes, it makes me want to cry like a little girl. And wail so loud that the birds will stop and listen, and the wind will carry my cries to the furthest edges of the world. How dramatic. How true.
I am old now. Not the make-believe old you mutter to yourself when turning thirty or fifty, but the real, evident, true, old. Is it 83? 84? No, definitely 83. I often ask myself how time has moved so fast. But then, when I think back to all I have done and all the people I have met, loved, and said goodbye to, it makes sense that I have lived for so long. And what a life it was. Or is. I must correct myself often now; I tend to speak like my life is already over, but it is not.
Today, I woke up intending to go straight into town and get some butter and apples. I wanted to make an apple pie for breakfast, not for any specific reason, but because I wanted to. And yet, a particular feeling has overtaken me, and when these types of feelings take over, I do not know what to do but write—nothing new here. I’ve been turning to pen and paper more and more these days. Just an old lady scribbling down insanities. It’s funny to think how long I’ve been doing this. How many notebooks upon notebooks have I written doing simply what I am doing now? How lucky have I been to have this crucial output of myself since I was in elementary school? A place to lay out my questions, insecurities and fears, but also to describe the most beautiful and magical moments of my life.
I’ve often tried to trace back to how I began journaling. Was it my parents? Or my teachers? A pastime to do when I was bored? Whatever it was that made me start, it was something else that made me continue. A feeling I’ve always gotten when I write. It has made me believe that callings in life are real. Although I’ve written many novels and scripts, it’s the journaling where I think the stupidest, wisest, and most beautiful words I’ve ever been able to conjure up lie.
What put me in this mood? When I took my first sip of the coffee, yes, the ‘perfect’ one I made this morning, the one sitting to the right of my hand holding this pen. It tasted exactly like the way my dad used to make it. When I took that first sip, it was like I was 18 again. Waking up under my childhood blankets after getting in from my flight late the night before, university exams now behind me, and only dark, cozy days ahead with my favourite people on the planet. If I close my eyes and listen hard, I can hear my dad’s soft, heavy steps coming up the stairs and a knock at my door. He would enter with a cup of coffee and a knowing grin. Thinking about it makes me emotional, as most things do. Oh, how I miss him. What a kind and great human and father he was. I was so lucky in this life. So damn lucky. I could have done anything, achieved many things or not achieved anything, but it’s the people who have been there beside me who have always made this all worth it. It’s the people that are my most significant achievement. As you must surely know by now, dear reader, after having listened to me ramble on for so many years, how often I fall into tangents like this. And yet, this morning, I feel something different.
A strength in me that I haven’t felt for some months now. Perhaps it is the new herbal tea I drank last night before bed. Or the call I received from my granddaughter yesterday. She told me that she was naming her unborn child after me. Something even the most stoic will crumble at. The simple thought of a beautiful child with my name and blood coming into this world, one that will get to experience what is slowly coming to an end for me.
The sun is now hitting my face. Hopefully, it’ll deepen my wrinkles even more. I plan on looking like the oldest tree in the area by the time I die. I remember when my first wrinkles came in, oh how I hated them, how I hated that my mortality was now written in lines on my skin. Now, I chuckle every time I get a glance at my gloriously aged face. Now, it reminds me of my favourite trees. Ones that I can feel the grooves and curves of when I brush my hands across their bark. Perspectives change, people change, and you change. That is probably one of the most accurate truths I’ve seen unfold in my lifetime.
I just sipped my coffee; it has gone somewhat cold. I’ll make another once I’ve finished whatever I’m writing here. This cup will surely not be as perfect, but that is okay; things rarely are, a fact I am now grateful for.
What shall I do today? The possibilities are endless for an old lady like me. The first frost is about to come, so I may need to get my carrots out of the ground. I could use some cold soil under my fingernails. Nothing like gardening to make life make sense again. I remember being
in the garden with my mom and grandma as a young girl. I was the weeder. I would spend hours on my hands and knees, meticulously picking the weeds between the rows of crops as my mom and grandma talked for hours about everything under the moon. It was my happy place, the place where I could be myself; it still is.
Sometimes, I wish I could listen to them one more time, laughing as they pull up beets and turnips. I wonder if people will talk to me once I go. I wonder if I’ll be able to hear them. If their words will be secrets, confessions, or a simple hello. Because god knows how much I’ve talked to the wind, hoping my words will reach those who have left. I wish I could see them all before I go. I hope death is something like the fantasy books, ones where all those I have loved surround me in a gentle embrace.
One thing I won’t miss is the suffering; there’s been so much of it. So many tragic events, so much pain and hurt. I remember when I was young, I wanted to fix everything. I wanted to ease the pain that so many felt. I would stay up all night, tossing and turning, thinking. How could I be so selfish living a life I enjoyed? How could I complain about anything? How could I be sad? There was so much blame and guilt that I just slathered on like paint all over my body. Eventually, it got to the point where I felt so suffocated and convoluted with emotions that I forgot that I was living my one and only life. Thankfully, I grew out of that and started living for me, which in turn created more change and good than lying in my pit of despair ever could.
Oh life. I still see it, after all these years, as the most beautiful blessing and most tragic curse. How could one not? How could one not look down and see that it’s all there in the palm of one’s hand?
I’m getting tired now. What happened to that “strength I haven’t felt in months” bullshit. Old age can be a nuisance. My best friend and I used to talk about getting older as a fun make- believe game. We would be 25, drinking wine at the beach, our toes buried in the soft sand, the moon glistening on the ocean’s surface. She would lean her head on my shoulder and whisper in my ear with her wine breath how she couldn’t wait until she was 90, and we could have old lady dates and complain about our partner’s snoring and laugh about our sore knees and plan gatherings with all our kids and grandchildren. We promised each other we would create the most beautiful lives, perhaps painful, but always beautiful. I miss her. I’ve already decided that without her here, 90 isn’t happening for me.
So much love. It flows out from me and then comes back; I can feel it winding and winding like a music tape. It’s almost like a humming sound. The sound I hear when I put my ear to the trunk of a tree, or the first cry of my child, or the crashing of waves, or the sound of my mother singing a lullaby, or the stillness of a forest filled with flowers, or my lover glancing at me secretly. It’s all the same in the end—a simple hum of love.
Okay, I think it’s time for me to go now. What a time it’s been. I hope I didn’t bore you too much with my squabbling. Time for some coffee, and then I’m thinking some apple cake. Oh my dear reader or listener or whoever or whatever you may be, because something
you indeed are. You must know how grateful I am. I know I’ve already said this, but words do not do justice to the way I feel for you. It’s always been me and you, hasn’t it? I’ve never been alone, no matter how much I thought I was. I hope that once I’m gone, you remain for all the little ones who need something to hold onto when the world feels too much. What a privilege it all was (is!). You, living, life, love, pain, all of it! I could cry! I could laugh! Why not do both? If I could leap around like I used to, I would, but instead, I’ll close my eyes, smell the breeze, and listen to the birds. Because life’s magic has never waned, it’s only deepened. And why? Attention. I’ve been paying attention. To it all. That is my greatest wisdom. That is my most important lesson. Pay attention goddamnit! It’s the crux, it’s the answer, it’s the essence of it all.
Ok, time for me to go. I will write soon, xxx.