Monday, I turned 44 and I did all my favourite things, went to bed happy. Tuesday, I shared good news with the world, also did math with Cinder, was not so bad. Actually, it was AWFUL, and yet, not so bad. Wednesday, weepy, no real reason, every reason, maybe I missed you, maybe I missed me, but I went to yoga so that was good. Thursday, Cinder turned 16 and I felt so small and so shocked. My giant baby. Friday, a good day productive but well-paced. Saturday, overcast, and I don’t know, yoga, sheesha, or bed?
I chose Rex Stout.
This week, I turned 44 and baby turned 16, and my mother couldn’t stop saying, “44!” which I suppose I get—my being 44th is rather ardent proof she’s not…
When I look at Cinder, it’s not so much his age that astounds me as his size. I mean—I grew, HATCHED this giant. That used to be inside me, that came out of me. I am… well, astounded.
I’ve told you before, love, that existence or non-existence of God is irrelevant to me because, caterpillar. I mean: the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly is miraculous and divine enough on its own—there is no need for more.
This week, I feel the same about the journey of the of the human from egg+sperm to baby, toddler, teenager!
It’s a little harder to see old age as a miracle and I suppose that is the task I will set myself as I age. I hope I will find something divine in wrinkles, brittle bones, and white hairs. And that aching knee and malfunctioning hip…
apropos nothing in particular
I miss you.
Sometimes, I really miss the freedom of blogging anonymously.
—->>>POSTCARDS FROM CUBA
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