Our tiny tree in front of the window.
What it looks like here on the ground floor, just before Christmas—bushes all covered with white lights that glow through our windows all night. Not a problem. We close our bedroom blinds, and Ollie the cat sleeps in the closet. (Light does help, though, with the trough of my emotions this time of year.) Our Christmas tree is a years-old pyramid made of dried vines with tiny lights. I changed them to multicolored lights last year because all the other lights out there are white. We have three of those fake white candles on our coffee table with wavering flames that can be programmed.
This is what it’s like at this retirement community. Decorated trees in the hallways, lobbies, everywhere: you don’t need to get your own tree, decorate it (our decorations are in storage), bake cookies, or even mail presents. I’ve ordered them online for our ten grandchildren and had them delivered. Should I feel guilty? I’ve had my day of buying, packaging, mailing—even the six years Kelly and her family were in London and the postage rivaled the cost of the gifts. I’ve had my day of hanging the angels my uncle made, placing the elves on the windowsills.
If I had read this twenty years ago I would have scolded the future me. I would’ve said, “What? You’re giving up? Can’t you manage to stay fully engaged in life all your life?” I would’ve answered, “I AM utterly engaged, just not on the same things. I am curating my time with an eye to its brevity. It’s not Santa’s sleigh I see coming, it’s time’s wingéd chariot.”
I notice that time feels compressed at my age. What’s important to me? Writing these little Wobblies, for one. Really. It’s a way of keeping in touch in the most intimate way I know without actually sitting down with you with a glass of Pino Noir. Writing is a conversation. The more I write the easier it becomes. The easier I am with you. The more relaxed the language becomes. Maybe occasionally a writer can suddenly turn out a beautiful poem or essay or whatever, maybe it can land on the rooftop like Santa’s sleigh, but generally it takes a thousand test drives.
Did I tell you I’ve written a diary about moving into a retirement community? No? It’s because I’ve wanted to focus on giving The End of the Clockwork Universe its deserved day. But sure enough, the diary will be out in June. I did it myself, meaning, like my earlier cancer diary (also called My Wobbly Bicycle), I gave it to the quite excellent Mission Point Press, a hybrid press that charges for their services. I simply didn’t have the energy to to submit and re-submit it, to press after press, this time. It’s my back/hip pain. And it’s my focus on both previous books this year, coming one after the other. Not my plan, but you can’t control when a book is going to be taken, and then you can’t control their publication timeline.
Nonetheless, I’m proud of this book. It’s surprising in many ways. It is literally a diary. I wrote it in the first months after we moved into our retirement community because I needed (desperately) to talk about what it feels like to do that. Ask anyone who’s sold their house and made this move. I’ll talk more about this book closer to publication time.
Some of the puppets. I’m voicing a swan.
What else am I doing with my precious life? Writing a long string of short prose poems, with nothing in mind for them at the moment. Taking max-doses of Tylenol and surviving until I see the neurosurgeon (this Friday). Rehearsing for Readers’ Theater, two different performances. One is a puppet show! Script written by a resident here, puppets (absolutely darling) made by residents, puppet theater made by a resident. We’re taking it to the Children’s museum to do two shows, and then we’re giving the theater and puppets to the museum for the kids to play with.
And rehearsing for another play, letters between a soldier and a dancer who gradually fall in love. Acting (well, reading-acting) has never been in my repertoire, but it’s fun! I’m so much looser in old age than when I was younger. I used to worry about looking foolish. Before I realized we’re all foolish.
This is all for today. Happy holidays!