Tags

, , ,

I start to type “Its an odd time of the year for me” then loop into what exactly is odd? If one of my hens were to lay a square egg, that is odd. Otherwise, what if this is just a natural state and stage; an in between time that occurs in the getting older process? (I realize that I started getting older the second I was born but you’ll truly appreciate what I mean when you hit sixty.)

This morning I woke from the effects of a dream. The dream scape left me deeply sad. Its vague now but I remember wailing to a school mate that I was about to go live in the Chicago suburbs. That meant that I was about to give up what I had now. And why must I give that up? Because getting out in the wide world would embrace the Inner Me. I wonder if this is the angst that Moley felt in The Wind and The Willows when he left Mole End?

Specifically, this time of the year, this YuleTide, is marked for me by first the birthday of the brother nearest to me in age then his death date. There. Its said. Brother Frank celebrated forty-three birthdays. He did not celebrate forty four. That almost marks him as a Charles Dickens character.

I am on the cusp. The edge of the cliff that all good people come to. Shall I stay in a country setting though I have health problems as well as emotional needs? I do love the room, the space, the pride of being part of a three acre weedy entity. For it is an entity. A being that we call Dunne Alba.

My partner; my person that I’ve stayed with for thirty nine years, bless us, indeed, he also needs the wider world. Or at least it would be good for him. This brings me to the decision to buy a toaster oven! My Love can not use the large electric stove very well because its controls are made for those blessed with sight. There are no dials or buttons to punch. The toaster oven has dials. Hubby has enjoyed and employed the toaster oven and is back to being on his own when it comes to all manner of cooking, including pizza creations. Our move from this Dunne Alba, this would mean the larger, open road of bus lines and train connections, trails that share space with trees, blessed green limbed trees, and of course rain.

Christmas is a quiet season for us. We rarely head out into noisy, boisterous parties. We rarely head out into large, human congested department stores. Instead we are at home, listening to books, reading to each other, doing what needs to be done. If we step out away from this current sheltering island that scenario could shift a little. Perhaps it is time to shove on a back pack and head out? Perhaps its time to air out the poet, to allow her to fly into dusty reading rooms and book stores, ears open to others as they too share their inner poet?