And now I sit here frozen.
Another cup of tea. This is the sequel to two cups of coffee. I’m looking for inspiration on a cold, gray day when the calendar year is waning.
No, I haven’t written this year. I haven’t played music either. I have cleaned out my closet a couple of times and alphabetized my spice rack. Somehow the alphabetization slipped out of order and I had to do it again. The presumption is that some fiend is sneaking into my house at night, mysteriously bypassing the security system, and creating havoc in the spice rack. Wicked, wicked fiend, spawn of Satan.
The confusion over the spice rack and my unrelenting fear that the spices’ expiration dates are past due has prevented me from cooking. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.
Is something wrong? I suppose the answer is yes, but it’s nothing novel. Depression, isolation, loneliness, failure to thrive. Remember when the term “failure to thrive” was used to describe infants who didn’t grow or interact with their surroundings? So, I am diagnosing myself with a senior version of failure to thrive. Luckily, it’s not really dementia. Yet.
For me, it’s a first-world problem. I live in a beautiful house that I designed and I have a 180-degree view of the Chesapeake Bay. I have everything I need, including grocery delivery service. In my carefully designed and organized closet I have approximately 50 pairs of shoes. I don’t wear most of them because they are (a) uncomfortable, or (b) there’s no occasion to wear them. I don’t have a hair stylist, a manicurist, an esthetician, a psychic, or a house cleaner. Quit your belly aching, grandma!
For now, I’m going back to my attempt at a practice of contemplation—sitting in the presence of God. I’ve lost traction when it comes to writing, but in this case it’s better to write something rather than nothing at all. One day at a time.
Here’s a photo I took from my front deck a few days ago. It is so stunningly beautiful here and winter has its own icy appeal.
