My heart is a stereo

The last time I wrote a column was almost 12 months ago. What a phenomenal detour from my passionate road.

Some readers have asked me if I stopped writing because I wasn’t happy.  I don’t deny those reader friends their assumption, because I have alluded to that very roadblock in past columns. However to the contrary, I have been happier in the last year than most of the last decade of my life.

I continue to grow forward in a most loving and fulfilling relationship with a good, good man and he reminds me daily how grateful I am for second chances, and more importantly that I deserve nothing less than the most excellent feeling of being respected and acknowledged for who I am as a woman and a human being. (Kudos to you, Virginia!!)

In all honesty, I stopped writing my column because I didn’t think I had anything new to say.
And even now I’m not sure I do have anything new to say but I know for sure I need to get back to the page of saying just that and/or something else.

Yet, who am I? Get in line I say. Even at 57 years of age, I’m not sure I know yet—and believe it or not—I think that’s the most exciting revelation ever.

I’m never going to be the one who says she is stuck in her ways. No, not me. Yet, I have my stalwart habits.

“Mornings are my table.” I still get up early, write in my diary, and read my daily books, including my new epiphany symphony, “A Return to Love,” by Marianne Williamson (which is not about the kind of love you might assume) and “The Wisdom of Sundays,” by Oprah Winfrey. Both books are thought improving movements for my time here.

Yet, my hair is going grey so fast I can’t fathom it. My Buddha, bless her soft and unforgiving shape, continues to plague my profile in my best pair of jeans. In the morning my joints are stiff and sometimes I stand at the wall to put my pajama bottoms on.

And I have the beginnings of a “trigger ring finger-right hand.” I pretend that it means I am an expert shot at the evil pigeons that continue to defecate in my barn hayloft, but when that finger gets stuck and won’t straighten and I grimace and make new face wrinkles, I really think not.

I have two emerging brown circles on my face that I think my late grandmother would have said were “age spots.” I’m not ready for those either.

Where did the time go? What happened since yesterday—1971—when at age 11, a school class photo was taken at Robert Moore School with my unplucked eyebrows? Life happened, that’s what—good, bad, and otherwise.

And I’m growing grey and much happier and wiser. Life rocks (and Virginia, so do you).
My heart is a stereo.