Tuesday, September 15, 2009

What next?


Oh my. For 100 days I had a structure for this blog. Paint every day. Post nearly every day. And now that glorious adventure is over.


You know, even as I wrote "had a structure for this blog," something pinged in my thoughts. I think I stumbled onto this whole idea of blogging, back in January, as a way to break loose, break free. Of what? I'm not sure. Maybe if I knew more clearly, I'd already BE free.

Anyhoo, instinct tells me that holding to some "structure" for these posts would be antithetical to the original inspiration.


So . . . . . . here's what I'm thinking right now ("Now" being nearly 1 a.m.--waaaaaay past my bedtime . . . .) : I'm gonna do my best, my very best, to share the real me here in these posts. No, that's not a new commitment--I've been as honest as I know how, from the beginning. [oh poop. Tears. Gollygeewhiz, I'm sooooooooooooooooooo tired of crying.]

I'm casting about for words to accurately say what I'm trying to convey. But they dance at the edge of thought. They tease me. I LOVE writing. LOVE finding just the right word. But right now, words are NOT cooperating.


At this moment, I'm feeling all bits-and-piece-y. The last two weeks have been a physical and emotional roller-coaster, taking responsibility for getting my 88-year-old aunt moved from one assisted living facility to another, from a private room to a shared room. Making her new tiny space accommodate her myriad of needs. What she couldn't take with her is now scattered throughout my living room, single garage, double garage. Do I share it? Sell it? Toss it? I am inches away from drowning in STUFF, hers and mine.


I see her mired in memories, many of them sad. Even though her fiestiness usually prevails, much of her time now seems shaped/crippled by her past.


What do I want to do with the rest of my life, so that when I am 88, joy predominates? Every day overflows with crossroads, many taken unconsciously. This way? or that? Right this very moment, I am walking my way into my future. Which direction am I headed?


No more "quiet desperation."


No more holding back.


No more shushing myself.

No more shame.
The lovely flowers shown earlier, all arranged in a vase, came from this tangle of sunflowers growing in the cracks of my front sidewalk. They weren't planted. They weren't on purpose. They just started whereever they found themselves, grabbed onto whatever soil was available, made do with whatever water came their way, and they grew. And grew. And grew. They didn't ask for space. They didn't apologize for blocking the walkway. They just grew.
They shall be my teachers.

6 comments:

Tabitha@ichoosebliss.net said...

One day at a time sweet Maureen. That is all anyone can expect of themselves. I wish someone would have given me that advice years ago.

Sharon said...

Way to go, sunflowers...and Maureen! I love you! Can't imagine you anything but wonderful at age 88!

aquamaureen said...

Thank you, Tabitha and Sharon. I was skittish about revisiting this post, written deep in the middle of the night, deep in the middle of feeling pretty flippety . . . but the sweet comments from both of you help so much.

I just acquired two paintings from my dear Amanda--one says "one little step at a time"--the other: "hang on" pretty timely, don'tcha think?

Amanda Fall - PersistentGreen said...

Wonderful...your wrap-up with the tall, gangly, strong, scrappy, surviving-and-thriving sunflowers gave me shivers. Teachers, indeed!

YOU will always be one of my teachers. Thank you for that.

The way you're willing to share yourself wholeheartedly really inspires me.

aquamaureen said...

wow, Miss Amanda . . . your comments humble me. We all teach each other, don't we?

Yeah, I LOVE the rough-and-tumble sunflowers. Talk about persistent!!

And that "wholehearted" sharing? well, I realized that one's heart can be broken. You can feel as if your heart has fallen into a pile of pieces. But as long as you love with ALL your heart, even all the pieces, you are still loving "wholeheartedly"---with ALL your heart.

Thank you for seeing and valuing that in me. It isn't an easy way to live, necessarily. But it's far better than the alternative, at least to me.

Elizabeth said...

So beautiful! I often think of you when I see sunflowers!