“Eldering”

I slip the moorings every morning & start across the nearest body of water towards a destination I cannot always clarify by writing – my lists are my maps, but they don’t always come with a compass. And there are so many degrees of accomplishment from one direction to the next one: I am bumped off course by all the other watercraft.

My instinct is to badger up & attack, which directly opposes my knowledge that forgiveness & allowance are the best ways. I’m less inclined & more inclined as I age to simply relinquish control of any given situation & allow it to develop on its own. I surrender to not controlling. The outworld is on its own trip & time passes with programmed vagaries. We run like lemmings from Sophia Loren to Twiggy & see no dichotomy.

From far away I see flickerings & I understand the eggshell is cracking. That little knob chicks get atop their heads when it is time to emerge developed some time back. The shell has proved harder than I was led to believe. Escape is a fine art & I’ve honed it to my advantage every time, even as I ripped off the black armband wrapped around my good right arm. Mourning holds no potential to morning.

The past dances up & sweeps me handily off my slippered feet into its rhythm – that same past I laced up running shoes to escape years ago. I came to Florida to be an old lady. I fight this off every chance I get. The only old lady activity I enjoy is mocking the young & that’s not such a positive life engagement tho it provides occasional entertainment.

I have learned not to trust those in ministry. I see that people in leadership are generally on their own private trip to a destination they’re unwilling to share. I totally understand as I’ve made my own way enough in this life to feel I’ve arrived wherever I am. At least I see & understand how I got here most of the time. When I don’t, I go back to the lists, either to escape or to fashion another way.

So few of the meaningful milestones count anymore. I cannot afford financially to live as I would wish. Alas, the government dole doesn’t grant a boiling opportunity, only a simmering existence. I’ve been monetized all my life & trained the only worthwhile individual is one who earns. Even now I watch the beggars with their plastic cups walking toward my car with a directed thought: “Get a Job!” Then I reach into my allowance of $5 bills kept in my middle compartment & hand one over. They’re not walking in my shoes, but my feet feel the pinch. My $5 buys a blessing from them & for them.

Who owes whom at these moments? Anyone? Anyone?

How can I have reached this “stage” of my life … think stage as in performance, think stage as in a vehicle pulled or pushed along, think stage as a destination platform along a route … & still have no real plans despite the lists?

I just thump along the eggshell feeling for a weaker point where I can get an escape rammed through. I figure the outside will involve more work & I don’t mind mindful work. What would I do with “free” time anyway? Write my book? Meditate on an unchanging mountain? Rest my eyes on a cerulean sky? Binge on others’ stories?

I haven’t trained to carry water; I cannot live far from the well. I still thirst.