I am so enjoying summerness.
The days of relative freedom are so welcome.
To be relieved of almost everything except the caring for my father
is so very lovely.
I make my own schedule.
I work on the incredible mess that is my tumbledown house.
I take time to exercise.
I read.
I study maths. (That's a whole insane story in itself.)
I take physical activities in short interrupted bursts.
Attack the rampant wilding greenery of the backyards
for thirty minutes and then rest and recover.
Use another half hour to start laundry.
Rest. Recover.
Use another to start sorting the massive disarray of every room.
Rest. Recover.
And on and on through the open days.
I've gotten so much more done in the past three weeks
than in the past three months
because I can take things at my pace.
There's a certain satisfaction and optimism that comes with setting things straight.
I so wish that I had lived my life right,
had planned properly for the future instead of just getting through
day to day,
or had had better luck and not steered straight into every disaster
or had been the darling of benevolent demi-deities
instead of the giggling gods' favourite sock monkey.
I'm 64.
I'm getting very creaky and more dependent upon chemical attempts
at discomfort eradication.
(Broken vertebrae may ostensibly heal, but they never truly forgive the injury
and voice their grudging resentment in the constant silent torture
of she who did not protect them properly.)
I'm far more mobility impaired than I should be for my age.
I work very hard at staying active but, oh, at a grand cost.
So summering makes me long for the day that I can retire.
It will be years from now, of course.
I will have to continue working a job that has proven to be physically dangerous
(and obviously not something a woman of my condition should be doing)
until I no longer have a mortgage (probably 4 more years)
and perhaps even beyond.
But I tell you now, this taste of quiet empty slowly productive days,
it is sweet.
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