Advancing Through Midlife Madness with Conditions

He Said ~ 

Reflections are sometimes futile. 

They can cause more major foul than minor harm. 

They force a history upon us; one which can be too recent in its rawness.

They request we process events in a cerebral fashion; instead of merely consuming past emotions and disregarding the digestive developments.

Meditations can be fraught with woe during their execution; even when we are cognizant of the abundant harvest they may reap.

So why do we tickle the ivories of this instrument we refer to as our memory?

Longing – I suspect. 

There are other incidents, which require us to majestically render our conscious thoughts with a graceful anchorage; a haven of merciful mindfulness.

As we advance to the mid-century madness of our existence, we repetitively encounter mutations of purgatorial misfortunes. The mundane, which once produced fatigue during its proceedings, is now craved for its immunity.

As I turn a year older tomorrow, my bewilderment is not borne from mortality; its confusion replicates to attach a freshly menacing genetic instruction, whose strands viciously evolve. 

Deliberations about our next season begin on the anniversary of our entrance. Our egos never completely commit to collectively changing.           

Resolutions should be made of sterner stuff then the acknowledgement of the first of a calendar year. 

After a triathlon of tribulations during these most recent 12 months of animation, my sights focus on orbiting this next phase in a simpler manner. 

Even though joints are swelling steadily; muscles are contracting without the intention of expansion; eyes are insipidly arid, despite the mocking reminder of salty cheeks – my stubbornness will not allow the defeat of chance, even as capacity attempts to emerge victorious.  

Putting the ills of yesterday aside, musings shift to a beacon from recent days; an unlikely, fleeting companion who calmed my trepidation and brightened my outlook. Violet is her moniker. She is a therapy pooch I bonded with while visiting one of my brothers.

Her inspiration was effortless and direct. It came with no conditions, and that is the greatest birthday gift right now.      

She Said ~ 

To believe feels like a fool’s errand but anything else is to admit defeat. Why must hope co-exist with this impending sense of doom? The four corners of my mind can barely stand the sunlight and the truth sprawled out before me.

Cracking, crumbling and eroding, this foundation is standing on shaky ground. The deafening warnings are muffled by the loudest bits of life. I ask myself, will it ever be silent again? Will it ever be peaceful and serene again?

The pendulum swings, slows its movement and settles down to say, perchance. Perhaps my faith will be restored again. Maybe one day, I will take slow and lingering breaths again. 

But, the time is not yet here for that. Right now, it’s shallow breathing season.

It’s barely keeping my head and reason about me season. It’s feeling deeply season.

But, the time is not yet here for that. Right now, it’s shedding season. It’s tears and fears colliding; piercing dreams season.

The time is not here yet to fill the void you left behind my most loyal friend.  The day is not here yet for my heart to mend, reminisce with laughter and not with tears. The day is not yet here to pack away the years.

The best friend of any man and woman.

Did You Know? While you may have only heard about them in recent years, therapy dogs date back to World War II, when they were used to boost the spirits of recovering soldiers with PTSD. The first official therapy dog (on record) was named Smoky: a tiny 4lb. Yorkshire Terrier who accompanied the nurses at a hospital in New Guinea as they dealt with battlefield casualties. Smoky was so successful she went on to work as a therapy dog for 12 years, even after the war was over.