This morning I wrote what I intended as a lighthearted and entertaining post. Then I asked myself why, because I really don’t feel that way. I feel tired, almost leaden, and sore and sad. Reading Julie’s moving post on her mother’s birthday gave me a clue. It’s da Nile.
I may not get better. Sitting here on my couch, listening to a raven calling, the whining of a power saw somewhere in the neighborhood, a plane in the distance, I am starting to see that this could be my life.
“You are old, Father William,” the young man said,
“And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
Do you think, at your age, it is right?”
It may not be true, but as the weeks pass and the crookedness persists, I begin to wonder whether I’ve entered a new phase, a limping phase, a cane-using phase, a time to admit my limitations and learn to live with them, instead of denying their permanence. Maybe there’s no going back to the norm of last year. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. You can’t turn back the clock, they say. What, not even a year?