We are still working on the details of Act III of my life. I was reading
Mary Oliver's poem about peonies and their “eagerness to be wild and
perfect for a moment before they are nothing, forever.”
I am not looking for perfection in Act III, way too many kinks to iron out and I am not going to spend the last 3rd of my life ironing! I am, however, eager to be wild in my old age, I am giving more of the reins to the Sinthya and BabaMara and Carly-Anne parts of me. Act III is not going to be the wild of my twenties, which, when I look back, was not wild at all but more a controlled rebellion of my life-long rules and regulations, as well as, societies strict guidelines.
Speaking of guidelines, my wildness was strictly within the guidelines of all the other rebellious twenty-somethings and that doesn't smell of wildness to me. It has the distinct scent of a following a crowd, and that has a certain stink to it, if you know what I mean.
I want my 60's and 70's and hopefully, my 80's to be filled with laughing that challenges my bladder, sights and music and moments that make the hair on my neck and arms dance. I believe it is time that Mrs. Richardson and Ms. Machado blend their essences. (Look, Mrs. Richardson is so relieved not to be carrying the weight of the world, she is smiling and her shoulders just dropped from just below her ears to normal shoulder position. As she and Ms. Machado fade into one, the wrinkle in Mrs. Richardson's forehead smooths out and I do believe there is a faint smile growing. Bea moves to take up the responsibilities, the move was seconded by Carly-Anne and the vote is unanimous. Integration is a marvelous thing).
Tuesday evening several friends and I attended a wonderful concert. We swayed to the music of Patty Griffin and John Fullbright; I am not sure about the others but I fought the incredibly difficult urge to jump to my feet and dance several times. She sat at the piano and sang "I'm Going To Miss You When You're Gone" and I cried like a baby.
She has a range of music styles that has no end, but her R&B is epic. Up there on the stage she is truly alive and present. Patty moves with a grace and sensuousness from her soul while she sings.
That's what I want out of Act III. I want my movements to be sensuous, not in the sexual way, but meaning that all my senses are alive and aware of the moment. I want to smell and taste color, I want to hear the sky, I want to feel the visible and invisible. I want my eyes to see, really see what surrounds me.
Our book club read Cheryl Strayed's Wild this past week, it was a second read for me, but it reminded me of hiking in Lassen Park alone last week. Granted, it was not the Pacific Coast Trail (because, frankly, that sounds a little insane to me) but I was alone in the trees and the mountain air. I was alone in the silence that is not silence but an incredible symphony of nature's living instruments.
Act III is beginning to weave itself into reality. I've decided to throw away the script...it wasn't going anywhere anyway! No script to follow; plans, yes, but nothing carved in stone, flexible for changes of the wind, of spirit or calls of the soul.
I will feel the wildness in acts of daily living, feel the joy of water running over my hands when I do dishes, I will dance while I vacuum, I will feel the blessing of warmth with each log I throw into the woodstove. I will travel, sometimes with and sometimes solo. I will sing with all my heart (except for the tiny bit of heart that has pity for anyone within hearing distance).
In Act III, I believe, I will be a Peony, for a little while, for forever is a long, long time.
I am not looking for perfection in Act III, way too many kinks to iron out and I am not going to spend the last 3rd of my life ironing! I am, however, eager to be wild in my old age, I am giving more of the reins to the Sinthya and BabaMara and Carly-Anne parts of me. Act III is not going to be the wild of my twenties, which, when I look back, was not wild at all but more a controlled rebellion of my life-long rules and regulations, as well as, societies strict guidelines.
Speaking of guidelines, my wildness was strictly within the guidelines of all the other rebellious twenty-somethings and that doesn't smell of wildness to me. It has the distinct scent of a following a crowd, and that has a certain stink to it, if you know what I mean.
I want my 60's and 70's and hopefully, my 80's to be filled with laughing that challenges my bladder, sights and music and moments that make the hair on my neck and arms dance. I believe it is time that Mrs. Richardson and Ms. Machado blend their essences. (Look, Mrs. Richardson is so relieved not to be carrying the weight of the world, she is smiling and her shoulders just dropped from just below her ears to normal shoulder position. As she and Ms. Machado fade into one, the wrinkle in Mrs. Richardson's forehead smooths out and I do believe there is a faint smile growing. Bea moves to take up the responsibilities, the move was seconded by Carly-Anne and the vote is unanimous. Integration is a marvelous thing).
Tuesday evening several friends and I attended a wonderful concert. We swayed to the music of Patty Griffin and John Fullbright; I am not sure about the others but I fought the incredibly difficult urge to jump to my feet and dance several times. She sat at the piano and sang "I'm Going To Miss You When You're Gone" and I cried like a baby.
She has a range of music styles that has no end, but her R&B is epic. Up there on the stage she is truly alive and present. Patty moves with a grace and sensuousness from her soul while she sings.
That's what I want out of Act III. I want my movements to be sensuous, not in the sexual way, but meaning that all my senses are alive and aware of the moment. I want to smell and taste color, I want to hear the sky, I want to feel the visible and invisible. I want my eyes to see, really see what surrounds me.
Our book club read Cheryl Strayed's Wild this past week, it was a second read for me, but it reminded me of hiking in Lassen Park alone last week. Granted, it was not the Pacific Coast Trail (because, frankly, that sounds a little insane to me) but I was alone in the trees and the mountain air. I was alone in the silence that is not silence but an incredible symphony of nature's living instruments.
Act III is beginning to weave itself into reality. I've decided to throw away the script...it wasn't going anywhere anyway! No script to follow; plans, yes, but nothing carved in stone, flexible for changes of the wind, of spirit or calls of the soul.
I will feel the wildness in acts of daily living, feel the joy of water running over my hands when I do dishes, I will dance while I vacuum, I will feel the blessing of warmth with each log I throw into the woodstove. I will travel, sometimes with and sometimes solo. I will sing with all my heart (except for the tiny bit of heart that has pity for anyone within hearing distance).
In Act III, I believe, I will be a Peony, for a little while, for forever is a long, long time.
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| Photo Courtesy of White Flower Farm |
Peonies by Mary Oliver
"....the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again —
beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?
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