I feel like I should be writing a new post. Actually, I want to write a new post. I just can’t focus on anything that’s worth being written.
I had a look through my drafts, but none of them fit my mood. I’m still slightly nauseous – not physically, but in my head – from over-indulging in the wine and limoncello and Cuba Libre and champagne on my grandma’s 86th birthday dinner/party on Wednesday.
I have so much time on my hands, that I cannot fit enough things in to fill up my days. I know that’s a luxury problem, but it’s a problem nonetheless. Time is dripping through my fingers and I don’t know what to do with it. It’s all over the floor at the moment. A bit of a mess, to be honest.
I should be writing my NaNo novel, except that I gave up winning that and started a new story half-way through. I’ll have to write thousands of words every day for the next week if I want to win. I could do it. Maybe I should do it. Maybe I will. Not sure.
Walking the dog in the mornings is fine. There’s clear, crisp, slightly wet air and it wakes me up and clears my head. And there’s things to see, like this:
And sometimes this, although not so much anymore, because the leaves are falling rapidly:
Sorry for the total lack of focus on this post. It’s an adequate representation of my mind at the moment.
to my grandmother
Every Wednesday noon, one of the family meets my grandmother at her physiotherapist to drive her and all her grocery shopping home. Sometimes she’s in a hurry because she’s got some social engagement scheduled for the afternoon. Sometimes we invite her over for lunch. Sometimes she just wants someone to chat with for a while. Today it was the latter, so I stayed a while and she told me of another visit at the old people’s home where she goes regularly. It’s the place where a lot of her classmates, friends and acquaintances now live and it’s just down the hill from her house, so she often goes to visit there and to help out. She knows all the nurses and she knows they are chronically short on time.
I know all this, none of it is new to me. I know the stories, I know a lot of the people she talks about, at least I can remember them from when I was a kid. I know that she is very practical and kind in her assistance to her friends, I know the stories.
And yet, today, as we sat in her formally-comfortable living room at midday, with the grey sky outside and the heating on, I looked at her and it all felt new to me. I saw that her body was old, so much older than I remembered. I saw that she can’t see or hear as well as she used to. And I listened as she told me in her matter-of-fact way of the friend whose sight is failing and who she bullies to be as independent as she can be despite her insecurity over not seeing, and who she indulges in all those instances where indulgence is harmless. I listened as she told me how she helped another friend to change her trousers and discovered that she hadn’t made it to the bathroom in time and how she dealt with it in her calm, practical way. And I realized that I was sitting at a table with a heroine and suddenly I felt like bursting into tears.
And so, I’m dedicating this post and these thoughts to my grandmother, who is by no means a saint, who exasperates me regularly, and who is the coolest, strongest, toughest, kindest octogenarian I know. Who goes out of her way to help old friends. Who volunteers once a week at a charity shop. Who works as a volunteer in the church community, visiting elderly folks on their birthdays. Who loves to travel and has gone off to travel places like Alaska, South Africa, Peru in the last ten years alone. Who once threw out a very close friend, because that friend thought her social visit was more important than a promise that my grandmother had made to her four-year-old granddaughter that she could stay the night at her place, which the friendship didn’t survive and which she’s never regretted. Who played tricks on her teachers as a schoolgirl, who worked as a nurse throughout the war and the falling bombs, who fell in love with my grandfather at first sight, who, years later, had to be tricked in her turn by my grandfather into trying her very first pair of trousers, who prefers spending her money on her nine grandchildren than keeping it “safe”, who watches the news and reads and is well-informed and goes to the theatre and the opera and concerts and who always let me lick out the bowl when we baked cookies.