10 December 2024, near the end of the eleventh year in which I continuously strive to live without complaining. Failure grips me; success skips away.
At 69, I should have chosen all the crossroads that fate might present but it seems that more await me. My patience erodes. I find myself unable to tolerate patronizing tones, jokes about serious subjects, and the outrage of self-righteous thinkers. Employing an increasingly slim arsenal of resistance, I purse my lips in the face of any of these. My mother's thin eyebrow arches; a twinkle shines in her eye; and in a second, my decade of intense study of nonviolent communication vanishes and I snap. My mother's ghost turns away but not before I spy a little smile and a minute shake of her head.
A competent web designer deems my sites irreparable -- or in the least, not worth repairing. We switched into recovery mode as the hull of the ship sinks towards the ocean floor and my words desperately wave their frigid hands as they throw themselves on bobbing lifeboats. I found a treasure trove on my laptop of the Musings, downloaded one at a time, in reverse, to prepare my manuscript two years ago. It's the other blog, My Year Without Complaining, that struggles against the waves. I learned my lesson: Hire competent help; keep back-up files; update, update, update. Those plug-ins won't mind themselves.
My friend Candy came into my shop the other day and asked when I would write another book. She lives in the park where I landed seven years ago next week. She and her husband have a 5th wheel with nearly twice the room of my tiny house and two yappy dogs, one of which likes me. She bought my first release and even read it. For that, if nothing else, I hold her dear.
Here's the thing: I don't have to write another book, unless my focus changes. I have years upon years of weekly missives that can be edited into a manuscript that I could shop on the strength of my first, self-published collection. Nor would it be difficult to actually author fresh material. Rather than struggling to write, I must cudgel myself into doing anything else. I can write; I find it easier than breathing. Whether someone will underwrite the project remains to be seen.
My unsettled emotional state might be the only impediment. My inability to tolerate folks who treat me with an air of dismissal sends me into a tailspin now and again. My faith in myself erodes. I question everything. Last week, I even considered pulling stakes and hiring a flatbed to take my tiny house to my cousin Kati's land south of St. Louis, if she would still have me. I'd hear that comforting blend of east and south in voices at the local diner. My son would be just a five-hour drive to the north. Three of my siblings would be in the metro area. I could live in quiet seclusion, occasionally strolling across the way to have coffee on my cousin's porch and talk until dawn.
I'm tempted.
But then: I get a call from the incomparable Tim Anderson, standing on my porch to claim a sleeping bag that I no longer need. In his cheerful voice he asks if I would like an apple pie with or without caramel. Before I can tell him that I shouldn't have sugar or gluten, he tells me that he'll leave both. He thanks me for the sleeping bag which I had in turn gotten from our mutual friend Michelle Burke. He says he can always use a sleeping bag for himself or one of the many friends who come to visit him in the Delta. He closes with his usual, I'll see you always, ending the call almost before I can agree.
This evening, after a simple supper, I warmed one of the two pies. The other easily slid into the small freezer in my tiny fridge. With a pie server that I do not think I have used in a decade, I cut myself a modest serving. I sat down to a piece of pie on a pretty plate, which I ate with a fork from the tableware that my sister sent me. It's the pattern of my mother's everyday silver. I find myself smiling.
The sun sets at five these days. My son told me informed me that we are in Jupiter opposition. I don't know if that impacts my mood but I've been crying and laughing in turns apropros of nothing discernible. My spirit might be preparing for another crossroads. I should tighten my shoelaces. I might have to choose in a hurry, and make a dash before I change my mind.
Mugwumpishly tendered,
Corinne Corley
The Missouri Mugwump®
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