Taking stock
What is it about that time after 1 a.m. that makes it seem somehow renegade and risky to think too deeply? My eyes have darts in them; my arthritic knees are tired even of reclining on the couch; that’s how late it is. And yet it feels like the right time to take stock of 54 years of life spent raising children, writing, editing, painting, and now teaching. I was off today, supposedly getting ready for Thanksgiving, but the best thing I did was get out the pretty dishes and arrange them on the table just because they made me forget how much the dingy carpet needs professional cleaning. These days I reach for the tiniest pleasures, since I was suddenly told I need a double knee replacement in July. That’s when old age smacked me in the forehead and brought me to a standstill; before that I was one of those energetic, creatively aging women who seemed -- to others and to myself -- much younger than I actually was. From a life leaning forward to one awkwardly faltering, this year has been an unwelcome wakeup call.
