Yeah, I’d say that turning 70 has been pretty invasive, so far. I never expected it or planned for it – much like my publishing debut, come to think of it. I wanted to be published. I worked toward that goal like a person possessed, but I never planned what to do once the deed was done. Worse, I’d lost my biggest goal … as unsettling as watching a lighthouse go dark.
I have actually been a published author now for 37 years. I really should have made some plans.
I know a few things at 70, but there is still so much I don’t know. I know I love being alive and experiencing each numbered year, but I don’t know why we are given so few. At most, 120-give-or-take. We all need more time to create.
We are all now launched upon the vast uncertain seas of the year 2017. A guy is going to get inaugurated soon, and there’s a huge march of women planned for the next day in Washington. Due to the extensive but deep connections of my lobbyist friend Joan, we have two tickets to the party, if we decide to go. There are so many ways this can go.
There’s nothing like a Christmas tree to brighten a corner of your house. It’s critical therapy for these long dark nights of the year, and I will be leaving mine up and brightly lit for as long as it pleases. As long as I love it; as long as it cheers. Last year I harvested the dry needles of its predecessor on the first day of spring.
I was taking a break from binge-watching the election coverage about ten days ago, enjoying the delicious middle of the latest Project Runway show … fringe, bias binding, ripping things apart at the seams … when the news came over my Democratic Underground Latest Thread page that the FBI had reopened their investigation into Hillary Clinton. I turned to MSNBC and pretty much lived there until her concession call last night.