70

We were born before the wind

Also, younger than the sun

'Ere the bonnie boat was won

As we sailed into the mystic

Hindsight has never seemed worth more than when one crosses into a new decade. My mother said, and most people would agree, that we measure our lives by them. 

We've all stories of our decades, be they falling in or out of love, new destinations to call home, beloved pets, music of the times, deaths we grieved. We have least and most favorite years based on such things, and blessed be the person who has many wonderous years within each decade. 

As much as I have had those wonderous years, and consider my life abundantly blessed, I found myself as this birthday crept up on me, experiencing what feels like yet again, the stages of grief. Kubler-Ross presents five, of which I've been wrangling three: denial, anger, and depression. 

First, a bit in denial that I could in what seems a couple blinks, be this age. Can-not-be-possible! I look well enough, and I feel great. Few complaints and no aches or pains. I stay busy out-and-about and rarely lounge. Everyone my age talks about aging. A lot. Enough! I mostly manage to ignore it, ditching the senior flyers that arrive daily to my mailbox, and instead hang out at trendy bars meeting the most interesting people. Of all ages. Stranglehold is still my go-to, crank-it-up song for God's sake! 

Anger I would say, presents as mild frustration, which emerges oddly at the happiest of times. I am two decades older than W, who arrived in my life unexpectedly in this passing decade. Six years together this summer and our entwinement remains tighter than ever. Hours to days to weeks within years have been free and magically easy; laughter and love both endless. Our difference in age doesn't affect us but will likely though, cut short our remaining years together. Whether by innocence or bad choices, some of both our prior decades seem wasted. Ridiculous as I sound, yeah, I'm pissed about that. 

Hark now, hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the mystic

Thirdly, it's probably not accurate to say that I am depressed but rather, that our situation weighs on me emotionally at times, and none more so than now. Chances are, W will suffer the grief that I did with Spoke's passing, and I worry for her. I hurt for her just thinking about it. It is an unbearable pain that one thinks will never end. Comfort finds me in that she's young enough to find new love, as I have with her. 

There is no bargaining stage for me. It makes no sense; I've nothing to barter but time yet to come. How ever many more years ahead for me and for us, will be what they are to be. I pray they are decades worth. 

Yeah, when that fog horn blows

I will be coming home

Yea, when that fog horn blows

I wanna hear it

I don't have to fear it

Thanks for reading. Putting head and heart on paper has always helped me, and this blog has for over a decade been a dear friend. So, aah... acceptance this 26th day of June. 

Turning 70 is humbling. I'm grateful and greedy, both at the same time. I'm finally ready. Let's do this, Baby. 

And I wanna rock your gypsy soul

Just like way back in the days of old

Then magnificently we will float

Into the mystic

Come on, girl

Too late to stop now

Into the Mystic
Van Morrison

my, what big ____ you have

 

(Valley House Gallery, Dallas, Texas)

short and stout

          I'm a very special teapot

           Yes, it's true
           Here's an example of what I can do 

Laura Calder crossed my radar, again speaking of the very things I myself tout. She does it often and it makes me somewhat jealous. The latest was in this month's letter to followers, promoting the book, The Beauty of Everyday Things, by Soetsu Yanagi.

Jesting aside, that my everyday world is filled with beautiful objects is truly important to me and I do talk about it a lot. Art imitates life, life imitates art.

The appeal of objects I reach for regularly, may be defined because they are beautiful by their nature or structure, their personal history tells a story, or because people with beautiful hearts gifted them to me. Being surrounded by lovely things is my constant reminder of the many aspects of my very beautiful life.

It did not get by me that Calder also mentions how this book caught her eye in a bookstore, much like I recently talked about with the Maiko book; her version being attributed to serendipity, mine credited to The Universe. The theory by any name, will place what you need right smack in front of you. Often!

My final chuckle came from the photo on the cover of the Yanagi's book. It is a teapot. A Japanese teapot I assume, and very pretty in a timeless way. So is mine.

My little pot never boils water but instead houses a few cards of recipe ingredients quantities that I reach for the most. It also holds scraps of paper; notes of words which I adore and wish to never lose. Words, to me, are as beautiful and to be as treasured as the objects which may contain them. I look forward to reading this book and perhaps collecting more.

We are so very similar, Laura Calder and I, though she speaks on a large platform and to many people while I occasionally reach into the teapot to read lines to special friends over glasses of shared wine. Art imitates life, life imitates art. 

I'm a Little Teapot
George Harold Sanders/Clarence Z. Kelley, 1939

pequeno toro de cocina