Sometimes I feel like one of those spinster poetesses who farmed the terrarium of her solitary life for meaning. This connection has come to me now that I live alone, with no responsibilities beyond my job, and no entanglements beyond the occasional phone call or text to my daughters and the daily phone call to my mother. The part of me that still believes that there should be action and gloss to life for it to be worthwhile rejects this abstentious life, but within my soleness I perceive that this quiet life is as true as a cloudless day.
Or, perhaps I have finally come to understand that it is true for me.
Or, perhaps I have the life that fits my purpose, which is, in essence, to be as those spinster poetesses: examining the basics of life.
Which is how I have finally come to appreciate the still activities of home.
If I cannot appreciate the outlines of my life, then what have the preceding 52 years been about? How long can a person rage against the system and the self? (Generally) dropping the tension of world-wide betrayal has, not surprisingly, enabled me to shift my focus from what I should be thinking about if I were a serious writer and person to the stunningly adequate thoughts that flit in and out. How have I let myself stand critiqued so harshly by myself? To what end? Is there anything more than a good life? Can there be a better life? Judged by whom?
There is this life. As wild or sedate as it may have been, it has been the right life because no alternatives exist in the way that day has followed day, and decision has followed decision, and the twisting and bending to the winds has always been a factor.
Truth, or the reality of one’s life, does not need embellishments, it only needs acceptance.