I whisper to myself as I watch the leaves overtake the buds, who, having done their job, having flourished and amazed their audience, simply fall away, no big deal. But it always breaks my heart a little, the brutality of spring. Slow down, I protest, I don't want to miss a thing. It reminds me of when my daughter was very young and very adorable her father and I would joke about an age freezing shot. For sure she has grown more beautiful and more complex, and I am entirely for it, no way would I prefer a toddler. I just want to savor it again, more slowly.
Time has always seemed to move too fast for me. Trains arrived at my station a minute earlier than I did. Involved in a project or in my own train of thought, it was always time to move on before I was done. Is that how my life will end, before I'm ready? Flower petals don't obsess over whether and when to let go. As for me, did I bloom? Did I ever bloom? Did it happen while I was running for the train?
I was a baby when I developed an old person's disease, rheumatoid arthritis. I was in my late 20s when people started calling me wise. Wise beyond your years, someone said. And now, at 61, I feel a hundred thousand years old, and also like a newborn. Each day there is some new development, something else I am not able to do, and I find some new way to adapt, adjust, to reach out.
My independence is gone, if it ever existed at all. I am asking for help, accepting gestures and goods, sharing intense sadness with friends because I cannot bear it alone. Now I understand interconnection as a matter of survival. Today my friend is accompanying me to an appointment with a palliative care physician. I expect we'll talk about how and when to die. I will wear my blue shoes.
Am I blooming now?
April 30, 2021