Celebrating a Year

January, 2019

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This has been “the winter on my discontent,” to quote the Bard. The fact that I am writing in the past tense indicates to you, my readers, that I have not moved this space for recollection into the new year in a timely manner. I wondered if I would stop it. It’s been a decade, and this isn’t the first time I have let it lapse, although never so long. For the rest of winter. Until spring. But I have some photos, and I just wrote a tiny spring poem, so I have hope the dark days will pass, and hereby declare that this year my celebration will continue, just more irregularly. The format of the past will not define the future. I will celebrate in whatever way I can.

January began with the last days of family before they returned to their homes and lives. Bumper ice boats, a last celebratory dinner, a ride to the airport for B & the boys, while A drives my old car back cross country to their home. The tree is taken down, the ornaments packed away, the sheets and towels washed and stored, the house now back to mine alone. With P, when he is here. Music rehearsals recommence. And walks with B. And weather and politics– neither of which helps lift me out of the post-holiday blues.


January goes on. P’s band plays a cool gig. I go, I listen, I chat, laugh, enjoy, but I feel like I am holding onto life by my fingernails, unable to crawl up on top of the passing days and bend them to my will. I find myself saying and thinking “this is not like me” alot. But of course it was me. It often seemed that it was actually time that was not like itself. It flitted, fled. I just let the photos talk for awhile.

And then it’s time for my son to leave. Hard to let him go. But family life these days is fleeting, treasured, but not “real.”

But there are great music concerts to inspire, with wonderful friends. Hamilton de Holande, Bill Frissel, the reunion of local heroes The Neon Valley Boys.

And in the midst of it all, Mom turns 99. There needs to be an appropriate celebration for this incredible milestone, but I am the only one left here to make that happen, so I drag myself out of my stasis and into my car, gather the necessary supplies, and head north. Mom rallies for the occasion and we have a lovely celebration. She does complain when I tell her this age is impossible to write backward– her usual trick for “changing” her age.

And then I get the flu, despite a shot. And feel bad and read alot. And try to think of a plan. Because I always have a plan.

But not now. The month ends with a trip in frigid weather to Boston for a second opinion on my eye issue. It is still hard, literally and philosophically, to look beyond myopic. Writer’s block continues, music is hard to play, inspiration not knocking either for words or music.

There are no poems waiting to post for Weeks 534-538.


Written by mairmusic

March 23, 2019 at 3:48 pm

Posted in January

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