Age

Was sincerely attempting to write last night and the internet didn't want to work.  Two major storms followed (only a couple of yard ornaments knocked over that were easily put back with nothing broken).  In the past I've gone out for the specific reason to write 'on time'.  Last night, 'the spirit was willing but the flesh was weak'; couldn't fathom going out 'just' to write.  It's age, or aging, or a combination of things too personal to go into now. 

This entry was going to be Books, Part II.  It's a month later and still not everything is in its place.  Many of the shelves that had seen their last days were left behind, not worth bringing along due to wear and tear, and there was no space for them.  I kept one, in my son's room.  He was just about a year old when I brought them into our first home together, one at a time, walking fifteen blocks from the closeout store where they were.  A long box in one hand, my bag on the other shoulder, and my son in a front pack, facing forward, for a total of six times.  He was between walking and crawling; the babysitter saw his first steps. 

I'll never forget when I unpacked the shelves he helped me put them in place by patting them with his little hands the flat part of the shelf so the ends would go all the way into the end grooves or spaces.  Every time the shelves were transported and set up again, the memory returned.  He had watched me from the higher shelves how it was done, so by the time we were down to his level he made sure the bottom shelves were in place as they should be himself. 

He was to be here almost two weeks ago.  We're still waiting.  It's been four months.  The massive library for an apartment that took up all of the six shelf units is now essentially 'shelfless'.  I'm on my way to the first donation dropoff with ones I know will be of use to someone else well before I'll ever get to the utilization of their content. 

My son noticed my lifestyle didn't match the titles awhile ago.  When I was much younger, maybe.  Now there is too much to do that tiny crafting tasks do not seem remotely part of the picture, even while recovering from an illness, in the remaining years of my life, which could only be half over.  With what I've experienced the first half century the world needs more than making jewelry with seed beads, however beautiful.  It's for someone, just not me. 

Beauty has been redefined of late: from the calming effect of feeling the weight of beads in the process of creating adornment, to watching small hands help finish setting up a new bookshelf.  There is no comparison.  Nothing compares.

Waiting, or not

Can't remember a time when my timeline matched everyone else's; my child and I are in sync: we don't procrastinate on priorities. Even without constant updates, it seems I'm regularly ahead of what others take time with, or I'm moving things along when no one else seems to be (except for occasionally not posting 'on time' when other things are being attended to). This is all only perception; my mind doesn't seem to stop.

"Massive Action" is part of a quote by a friend that is neither new nor old. I act like I write, in very long sprints, rarely if ever comfortable resting. There's no time for rest at an age when most are beginning to wind down, there's no stopping now. There are no options, only to keep moving forward.

Everything is so fragile, and timely. It's raining out. Pouring. Glad to be inside, though not for long. Someone is still uncomfortable, much more so than I. I feel them almost as much as if it were me, sometimes as much: the reason stopping or resting is not an option. Someone cannot speak for themselves. Someone cannot say what they really mean. It isn't safe to do so. This is more common than most are aware or think about.

The right words at the right time; the right information at the right moment can mean life or death, or at best an entirely different outcome, which can go in either direction. Uncertainty is only a given, what causes fear is moment to moment. Some claim it's all from within; having seen so much, even that theory remains in question. Those who have not experienced or remember what happens in childhood for many can only comment on popular thought. What's hidden is the fabric of the landscape, like the soil that holds the trees. Never mind the forest; that's just the surface. Seems only the unconscious knows the surface isn't all there is, most of the time.