Summer is making the slow transition into fall, my awareness of this seems to increase every year. Falling leaves, fading plants, the increasingly insistent songs of insects, subtle shifts in the atmosphere...mid-August and I can sense it already. I have not had enough of summer, I long for the siren song of the ocean, the taste of salt air on my lips, the feeling of sand crunching under my feet, the long exhale. Yet, summer will fade and fall will arrive with winter nipping at its heels. My daughter is home for a nano-second before she leaves for a semester abroad. I'm facing another milestone birthday, which will be spent alone. The prospect of this does not delight. Yet, I shall embrace the new normal and flow with the increasing awareness of the passing of seasons, the continuum of the empty nest, and accept this new number of 55...
In other news, or tangentially, or because my brain keeps hopping about as I tap at this keyboard, I have found being funny increasingly difficult since the last election. I keep reaching for it, though it mostly eludes. It's a weird new world filled with daily disappointments. I have adjusted with a weird new level of seriousness. Or more aptly, my underlying tendency towards Brooding Irish Melancholia is surfacing with more frequency. Don't get me wrong, I am not allowing my joy to be siphoned away, but it's being tempered by my awareness that we're living in strange and troubling times.
Thinking. Thinking. As I am wont to do. So much of how we measure reality is structured by our perception of time. How fascinating that is. Today, tomorrow, daily, hourly, frequency, strange times, birthdays, age, years, passing, numbers...
Seasons are real, but calendars and clocks are illusions. Knowing this, I attempt to release my attachment to arbitrary numbers on falsely constructed timelines. A little perspective is in order. 55 is not much of a leap from 50 or 45 or 39. A few more wrinkles, yes, but the core of me remains the same. What matters most remains the same. Time may keep slipping into the future, but that isn't a tragedy. I'm here. Seasons keep changing, and I keep marching bravely forward even through these strange and troubling times. Stranger and more troubling than times past? Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's all perspective. If time is an illusion, if it is a circle and not a straight line, if it is a matter of the observer and their perspective, then none of this matters in the grand cosmic scheme. It's all happening, it's already happened, it's going to happen...today, tomorrow, daily, hourly, frequency, strange times, birthdays, age, years, passing numbers...blah, blah, blah-biddy blah.
A hearty sense of absurdity is in order and this I shall seek to summon in spite of any melancholic undertones...or undertows...as they may be.
It's about time for a shift in my perspective.
See what I did there?