Florida, oddly enough

Who knows, but there's a story here... Mike and I joke when we go to Naples and walk past it, that the long delay getting this practically beach front renovation finished, is a new wife with grudges....redoing the whole thing. "I'm not stepping one foot in there until you put down a new floor!" ... and more drama ensued. Coastal Florida hyperbole, but you see it out and about occasionally, these stereotypes.

And after being in Florida 3.5 years, I feel like this house, sort of. Not its imaginary inhabitants. At different phases of rewiring, rebuilding, deconstruction, and renewal. When we are young we think we can evade the situations our elders face, that things will be different for us, we're perhaps cooler than they were and times are different. We don't think about the duties and trials of our later decades. We don't think about the realities of caretaking when our parents age, about how strange it is to begin thinking of yourself as older. A major pull will become digging around in your own life. What was a facade? What needs an overhaul? Hidden treasures in the attic, contraband in the basement, it's a definite need to see what it is you've been living in and as, all these years.

When you get to a certain stage of life, you recall it wasn't that long ago that you looked back upon your past, at your idea of soundness, and you thought you had sized it up clearly. You thought you had a wide lens view of your life and yourself and how you stood. It was a too short window, in reality. A brief clear moment when the past seemed as clear as a new mirror, and the future a morning sidewalk stretched out for your saunter and energetic ministrations. 

You remember the footsteps of loved ones in the hallways. Children all asleep, safe and sound under your roof. Parties, music, laughter, raked leaves and window fans.  Time spent in living rooms, reading the novels, daydreaming in your kitchen, clocks ticking. Now you want time to reflect on those years, a portrait on the wall with moving eyes seeing everything.

It's hard to not rattle around, while making your appraisals, hard to not make noises. Hard to not groan in dissatisfaction and sorrow. To not feel trapped when you realize perhaps there was a world you'd disapprovingly participated in, like a ghost in the hallway. On the other hand, that simple recognition is a freedom and a privilege. Maybe realizations such as these will cause that hidden treasure to appear in the attic, and wisteria to climb the trellis.

There is only so much time left, you are conscious of that. We try to make it worth something by understanding it. It doesn't matter if we share it or not, but I've always loved the stories of old people. I hope you will share yours, no matter your age. Tell your stories. At least give them room to come to you. 

~Dorothy Dolores