Yogi Berra

I suppose it is inevitable. Reflecting on the ‘where I’m at’ in my life, assessing. Is it a late mid life crisis? Could be. But it could also be having gone through the loss of my second brother two years ago and the recent loss of my mom four months ago. Causes one to pause. Maybe take stock of the length of runway that’s left me before hitting the gate. I’m coming to terms with a few things. Adjust the reading glasses, pencil poised, hovering over a yellow(ed) scribbler. Tick, tick, and…tick, no erase that.

Speed of life races by at the rate of ones age, the saying goes. Is my life going at 61 miles per hour, or 61 kilometres an hour? I live in Canada where metric is standard, so, lucky me. 61 kilometres per hour is  37.9 mph. Which is better than 61 mph which would convert to 98 km.

ok, nice try.

I think about my fast expiring aspirations and diminishing dreams, and, like shaking off a stupor, make a mad grab at them before they vaporize into the ether. I think about all those rosy, soft edged hours that basked in the languid stretch of my youth, time enough for becoming or accomplishing, for figuring out who I am and what I wanted to do with my life.

Glaring back at me, the not a few great opportunities I let pass by over these sixty years. That I have made some face-palming-stupid decisions or wrong turns is a mad under statement.

And why is it the regretted ones that slipped the net then come back at you, get all in your face like a bully, block out the good stuff?  Anyway I did some good stuff. But damn it’s true – it’s always the one (s) that got away that gets the sighing “if only.”

On the upside, I’ve come to terms with my limits. So that’s a time saver. I know I won’t run off on some tangent of an idea, like ‘I’m gonna open a bakery- slash-cookbook store-slash art gallery in Todos Santos!”  I can rein that in.

I’ve also attained some insight into how I’ve limited myself over the years. That one stings a bit. A lot.

I’ve come to terms that I don’t like vigorous exercise. Like running.

Age has never been an issue for me, and it isn’t now- necessarily. In fact today I am the youngest I will ever be! But it doesn’t sooth the fact that those dreams and aspirations of mine now have a shorter runway for getting airborne. They have a greater risk of calcifying right where they lay. Some would staunchly defend the case that after 60 (50,40) ones “bloom” has quite long ago balled up into a dust bunny now sequestered under the couch.

I beg to differ. Can’t I? I think I’m in fair company, taking as my mentors women who are striding forward, eyes forward, enthusiastic, engaged, age defying in the purest sense; their soul youthful. There are a lot more of these women to hook my wagon to than in my moms generation.

I am aging (stupid statement- me and every living thing on the planet), but we all know its better than the alternative. And I swear I still feel like 40. Ok 45. (refer to above re:  age/kilometre, see? It’s accurate.) But, I must come to terms with the fact that really, if I’m lucky, I may have 15-25 GOOD years left IF my health holds up.

I think I’m pretty healthy.

It’s sobering. I’ve come to terms that this, right now, may be as good as it gets, which is pretty damn good, and to keep embracing with full gratitude what I have in my life and who I’m spending that life with. I know now too that everything comes down to choices. Having had so much experience in making some clunkers has honed my skills. I know better. (Jeez, finally.)

My choice is to continue to get on with those dreams and aspirations no matter how long or short the runway, water my flowers and nurture the blooms, all the while shouting out the incidental wise words of Yogi Berra : “It ain’t over till it’s over!”

Poppy

 

I was overwhelmed with a plethora of wild poppies in my front garden this spring, and lucky me. They proved a fascinating photo study. Capturing the clear slant of the morning sun as it rose over my cedar hedge gave me gorgeous opportunities to explore the poppies crepe like translucence.

I have a large portfolio of these beauties that I will share over the next few weeks~

I use only my iPhone 8. No filters.

Mother/Daughter

My girls, Beacon Hill Park, Victoria B.C.

I call Victoria B.C my soul city even though I had only lived there a mere five years, during my mid twenties; a struggling single parent with a four year old daughter. Even though it was during the more difficult time in my life, young, directionless, and floundering in a relationship with a rock guitarist.

Yet still. I think it is where I grew. And though the growth had its hardships, and in truth don’t the two go hand in hand, these times and places where growth happens always leave an indelible mark. For better or worse.

I was in fact quite happy in those five Victoria years despite the obvious chaos and confusion I had going on then. Ok – my entire 20’s decade was chaos and confusion- but, I grew up. A bit.

Within that five year period while there I worked at a five star Bed and Breakfast as the breakfast chef, which I absolutely loved, then later left the B&B to train and work as a Care Aid. The money was union money and benefits, so it was a strategic employment choice.

Even so, it was when my daughter and I were evicted from our James Bay apartment that eventually determined our move back up island to affordable Nanaimo.

Reason for eviction being the building we were living in was unfortunately slated for demolition. Being built in its place a luxury adult oriented condo high rise. Thus all of us were given notice. And leaving Victoria, reason being that I couldn’t afford to rent a house, and to find an apartment that allowed children was nearly impossible to come by at the time. I looked hard, searching through the listings in the Times-Colonist in every effort to remain in Victoria. The thought of leaving was, I didn’t want to think about leaving. But, time was running out and nothing was coming up.

Except for a two bedroom house my sister-in-law’s parents had coming available in Nanaimo just as my daughter and I would be exiting the Victoria apartment.

But that last Victoria residence, our apartment, was where our fondest memories are kept. It was full of single parents and low income families. We were happy there, neighbours helping each other with child care, and bonding together as a tight community. It was across the street from Beacon Hill Park. My daughter and I could walk out our door, cross the street, and have all of Beacon Hill Park and that great stretch of waterfront at our fingertips. Or we could take a walk down streets lined with great old trees and character homes and be downtown in the heart of the harbour in ten minutes. My daughter’s school was a three minute walk away.

And although I have lived in Nanaimo for most of my adult life, from the age of eighteen, whenever I go to Victoria  – it’s only a one and half hour drive away- I feel as if I’m being embraced by the dearest of an old favourite aunt. It feels like I’m coming home.

This feeling is the same for my daughter.

Recently she visited from her home in Kimberley, located in the Rockies of B.C., with her one and half year old daughter, my first grand baby. A visit to Victoria is on the list of things she wants to do.

Spending the day walking through the park, my baby with her baby, seeing these two together, I could see my daughter once again as the little girl she was with me, remembering our life here, my own youth, my young daughter at my side where together we once had spent so much time, climbing the rocky shoreline over looking the ocean and out towards Port Angeles in the United States.

A little melancholic, our past Victoria life flickered briefly before me as I watched my daughter with her daughter, for those few years when it was just she and I.