And in the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.
I love to weed my gardens. There’s something peaceful about sitting outside in the fresh air, yanking on ugly green things until they release their hold in the earth. The big weeds are difficult because they’ve matured and have had so much time to course their way through the soil. The little weeds are even more of a pain because they are young and hard to grasp and difficult to pull out completely. If you leave any root, those suckers will grow back with vengeance.
I spent the better part of the morning weeding and I got to thinking about my life.
Do I need to go back into therapy? I have so many questions. Why am I perceived as being immature and an embarassment to people who love me? Am I really drinking like a 20-year old and, if not, what is too much? Am I really mean, and if not, why do I say such mean things? Is it wrong to want to feel young? Is it wrong to want to try new things and experience new adventures? Should I just accept that I’ve lived my life and the only thing left to do is die? Am I hurting people I love by my behavior? Am I hurting myself?
Am I angry, depressed, happy? Is it wrong to wonder what comes next?
I couldn’t answer any of those questions but I pondered them for a long time. The yanking and pulling made me think of things I could change. The prettiness of the now weedless flowerbeds made me want to be a better person.
I thought about my mom and how she glowed when people told her she didn’t look her age – and she didn’t and I don’t. She was a classy broad, my mom. She wanted to look her best and even in death, she was beautful and in my mind, she is as pretty as those days when she asked me “How do I look, Peg?” and, gosh, she did look pretty.
Is there much difference in the way she drank and the way I drink? or the reasons?
Do I hoard things because, like my mother, I’m a bit of a pack rat? Or are those shoe boxes full of ticket stubs and programs and birthday cards so that I never forget how I felt when I had those experiecnes?
Is it time to change jobs? Is it time to change careers? Would I rather have stayed home and raised my son?
I can’t answer a lot of these questions. I can ask them and think about them? I can hope that I am a better person for asking these questions and considering the answers.
Like my niece who asks, “Do you love me or my baby brother more?”, I can pray that in articulating the questions, the answers will be easier to accept – that maybe there is no right answer and that only time will tell. Or that the answer may be different on any given day.