It occurs to me, today, that serenity is truly a “one day at a time” kind of occurence. I am as unsure of what will bring her as I am of what will take her away. She sneaks up on me unannounced. As the day unfolds a quiet moment whispers gently, “This is it, this is serenity.” My breathing quiets as I intentionally feel the peace the moment holds. I smile as I recognize the gift I have received and I silently give thanks.
There is no announcement on her leaving. In the midst of a new day, my brain clangs with cacophonous doubt and only after I stop to observe the noise do I realize she has gone. I know there is nothing I can consciously do to bring her back. My only responsibility is to know when I hold her and appreciate that time.
Category: Life
>Serenity
>It occurs to me, today, that serenity is truly a “one day at a time” kind of occurence. I am as unsure of what will bring her as I am of what will take her away. She sneaks up on me unannounced. As the day unfolds a quiet moment whispers gently, “This is it, this is serenity.” My breathing quiets as I intentionally feel the peace the moment holds. I smile as I recognize the gift I have received and I silently give thanks.
There is no announcement on her leaving. In the midst of a new day, my brain clangs with cacophonous doubt and only after I stop to observe the noise do I realize she has gone. I know there is nothing I can consciously do to bring her back. My only responsibility is to know when I hold her and appreciate that time.
Weighing my options
For once in my life, I seem to be right on track. Having used up a good portion of my “40’s” and peaking around the corner at “50” one question rolls round and round my head. The neon marquee reads “Is that all there is?” Great song! Peggy Lee, I think.
Since birth, I have heard, “This is your one chance, make it good!”. True, it’s often an inner voice, but a voice all the same. A voice that sometimes screams louder than the one in my ear.
I read of women. True pioneers. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gertrude Stein, and even Ellen Burstyn. Yes! Ellen Burstyn! What a life! A life filled with adventures created by a will to live and experience all. A life unfettered by conventions and restraint. Lived without compromise or apology.
And I am that woman. Deep down inside, squashed by years of other people’s beliefs, I am that woman. Gazing down that last long stretch of road, I see an opportunity, no, a mandate to break some of the bindings others would use to hold me. I understand the importance of filling my memory bank with experiences and adventures, that in my waning years will warm me when my bones are cold and my skin too thin to ward off drafts. I want to be the crone sitting in the corner of the rec room with Madonna’s smile playing across her lips. All the others, the ones who played it safe and lived it boring, will sneak glances in my direction and wonder “What did she do?” My derring-do will bring me wisdom to share with grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will pat my powdered arm even as they marvel at my saltiness.
The choices I make will benefit those unknowing of my plans. As we slog through every day in the same murk we slogged through yesterday, my spirt will lighten our load and I will know that there is sunshine at the end of my trench.
>Weighing my options
>For once in my life, I seem to be right on track. Having used up a good portion of my “40’s” and peaking around the corner at “50” one question rolls round and round my head. The neon marquee reads “Is that all there is?” Great song! Peggy Lee, I think.
Since birth, I have heard, “This is your one chance, make it good!”. True, it’s often an inner voice, but a voice all the same. A voice that sometimes screams louder than the one in my ear.
I read of women. True pioneers. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Gertrude Stein, and even Ellen Burstyn. Yes! Ellen Burstyn! What a life! A life filled with adventures created by a will to live and experience all. A life unfettered by conventions and restraint. Lived without compromise or apology.
And I am that woman. Deep down inside, squashed by years of other people’s beliefs, I am that woman. Gazing down that last long stretch of road, I see an opportunity, no, a mandate to break some of the bindings others would use to hold me. I understand the importance of filling my memory bank with experiences and adventures, that in my waning years will warm me when my bones are cold and my skin too thin to ward off drafts. I want to be the crone sitting in the corner of the rec room with Madonna’s smile playing across her lips. All the others, the ones who played it safe and lived it boring, will sneak glances in my direction and wonder “What did she do?” My derring-do will bring me wisdom to share with grandchildren and great-grandchildren who will pat my powdered arm even as they marvel at my saltiness.
The choices I make will benefit those unknowing of my plans. As we slog through every day in the same murk we slogged through yesterday, my spirt will lighten our load and I will know that there is sunshine at the end of my trench.
Concerning calves
I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.
>Concerning calves
>I would be remiss if I didn’t share another story concerning my calves.
As high school ended and “real life” began, I embarked upon my father’s dream for me of attending nursing school. For a person who, despite making good grades, had never cracked a book, a career involving the sciences might not have been the best choice. But, I digress.
With the help of several older women who were “finding” themselves and 1 dear, gay man who provided comic relief, I made it through my first year of college. Year 2 would bring formal nursing educaiton and THE UNIFORM. On my commuter college campus, the nursing uniform was the equivalent of a letter jacket. I remember watching in awe as ethereal visions swathed in varying shades of blue and white moved from one class to another. Wearing a folded peice of cardboard proudly perched atop my head, I would now glide just a little above the sidewalk as I moved about the campus. Ah, bliss!
My first clinical assignment was to a medical ward wherein most of the patients were either elderly, chonically ill, or both. These people had assimilated the hospital experience and actually enjoyed the social mileau provided by the staff. Nursing students were particularly engaging.
I spent the morning attempting to arrange the stiff polyester upon my body. To call the dress shapeless is really too kind. Pale blue, with an enormous white placard down the front, held down by large, cheap, clear buttons, my costume did not provide the angelic feeling I had expected. I shopped for days for the large white shoes that would complete my ensemble. As we received our assignments, I struggled to pay attention as I studied the other girls and wondered if I looked as shapeless as they. I cursed my size 8 feet.
Clipboard in hand, I plowed down the hall toward my charges. With feigned confidence I grabbed the cold metal latch of my first patient’s door and pushed it open. A forced smile hid my discomfort as sweat trickled down my spine and “Don’t let me spill the urine.” played like a mantra in my head. The large African-American woman sat up eagerly in the bed as I entered. “Well, ain’t you got some pretty, big legs!” she bellowed.
Are We There Yet? 