I look forward to the evenings. I always have. Maybe it has something to do with the fact of my age. Or maybe it is because my mother told me that I was born “all grown up”. Some people enjoy the awakening of morning, the anticipation and mystery of an unfolding day. Others like the afternoon, the warmth, the vigour, the possibility of a new venture, a siesta or a rendezvous. Not me.
Now, it is not that I am a “night person”. It isn’t that I come alive at night, or that I haunted bars or nightclubs as a young woman. I don’t find darkness a stimulus for creativity or reproductive activities. I actually prefer all such activities in daylight. It has an obverse illicit feel somehow.
Night time is sunsets and bonfires and still water reflecting a full moon at midnight. It is also the portion of day when I would hold each of my children individually, just long enough to read them their bedtime story. They were a vigourous, busy bunch, my three. But by eight o’clock they were ready to cozy down, and if a story meant prolonging bedtime, that was just fine with them. I wonder who enjoyed it more. Grandchildren allow a déjà vu, however fleeting, of those precious moments, when little hands slip into mine, soft cheeks brush against my neck, and tender voices whisper, “read it again”.
And then and now my own bedtime. The ritual of fluffing pillows; laying them just so, to support a reading head; deciding which of the several books on the bedside table to enjoy on this particular night. In summer, lying scantily clad with the breezes blowing in the window; in winter with the heating pad to warm the quadrants of the body, inching the pad downward on ten minute intervals. And when it reaches the ankles and feet, it is time to turn out the lights. He comes to bed, finally, and I role over to hold him and sleep.
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WRITING ONE'S LIFE
Whether we realize it or not, we are all authors in one way or another. As children we created worlds that disappeared when realism intruded into our psyches. Who of us did not have imaginary friends? Some of us still do.
As we go through the most productive periods of our lives, however, we are compelled by responsibilities to live realistically within the cooperative confines of family and societal expectations. One of the joys of Aging, if we allow it, is that we are now able to escape the bonds of other's expectations. We have earned the right to create and recreate our lives at will.
Occasionally we may go back to reread our favourite moments (memories), but new books, people, locations, ideas are awaiting our arrival. Why would we want to disappoint them or ourselves.
In this site I hope to explore all the many ways women of my generation are choosing to deviate (ooh, like that term) from the horizontal line, and instead will squiggle, turn right, turn left, jump up and down, anything except onward as usual. I hope you will join me in exploring all of our creative options as we live our lives with gusto and elan.