Piles of papers, some financial, some literary, some household related, I sigh and walk away. I mean the state the world is in here in November of 2020. Thinking all this would serve as inspiration, that writing it out would help. Instead, I find myself wanting to go to Strawberry Fields where “nothing is real, and there’s nothing to get hung about”, but I am hung. Spiritual leaders advocate letting go, accepting change, embracing impermanence. Our ancestors came across the ocean, bought a farm, and stayed there – had ten kids, taught them animal husbandry, awakening in the pearly grays of dawns to begin work. Hard work. Every 50 years or so some great invention would increase efficiencies. News came in handwritten letters that arrived a month after they had been written. And each stroke of the pen had thought behind it. Not like typing. Not like posting on social media. And they stayed where they were planted. This, this global pandemic, this resurgence of oppressive regimes, this fire hose of information, scarcely any of it reliable – they experienced some of this. But not at this pace, not at warp speed. My grandfather served in two World Wars, you know, and it messed him up, he killed himself at 54 years old. Would have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder if anybody was admitting it. Back then, to have such a disease was shameful. I wonder if my DNA is haunted down to the last helix, and I’m bitching about quarantines. Everything changes, I know this, down to my bones, I know this. But I am comfortable here. Physically comfortable. We saved up for retirement, we made plans. Gaia laughs. Ok, I am cancelling the pity party, and keeping up the submissions to the contests. And Zooming with my friends. Attitude of gratitude, let’s all dance like nobody’s watching, because, really, nobody is.
Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp
Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners. View more posts