It’s probably comical, the perpetual state I live in, thinking I am on the cusp of getting a handle on the forty-seven ring circus that is my existential toe hold in time and space.
I mean, let’s be candid. At the age of 40, I have never managed to herd more than one cat at once. I can’t even get my two actual, non metaphorical, cats to eat breakfast in the same room with out a dark cloud of deep seated tension rising between them and casting gloom over the land. On the other hand, one of my cats was near death just weeks ago, what with the traumatic brain injury and all. She couldn’t even use the litter box with out me propping her up or walk four feet with out falling down. This week she has regained the ability to jump up on the furniture. For the simple joy of it, it seem to be all she does now. She leaps to one chair, enjoys the higher perspective for a bit, then moves on to the next chair, the table, the couch. Leap, leap, leap.
It’s probably a fallacy in the last paragraph that I linked the triumph of my wobbly-cat’s healing to my ability to herd cats. While I was steadfast in my willingness to feed her food that made my whole house smell like soft, chewed tuna fish and cheese, to hold her as she poo’d, to bathe her and brush her and play her clips of ridiculous music marketed to boost cat’s well being, the small victories probably belong to luck and biology, the tenacity of the wobbly-one, herself. A lot of things get resolved on their own. In due time.
Without me, I mean.
Which isn’t to say I am undeserving when I share in the golden light of things. I play my part. I am part of the fabric.
This past weekend was a memory-maker. My baby girl who is not the least bit a baby anymore passed her first belt test. And then later the same day, she sang and played guitar with her teacher at the town talent show. The tally of grit and practice those two ten minute moments took, is amazing really. Nerves consumed the both of us for days leading in. When it came to the wire, it was all on her, though. There was nothing I could do for her from the sidelines. There was nothing I needed to do. She was nervous, but nailed it all with aces.
Which isn’t to say I am not part of the fabric, I am. I am dozens of threads running through the center, even. I am not the one wearing the garment. I’ve reached that point of my midlife role, like most women, I understand how I weave into every one’s cloak but my own. It is not that I am on the cusp of managing all of life. It’s mostly that these cloaks are worn by whirling dervishes.
All of this is to say, I think I need to change my perspective more than I need to get all of the whirly gigs under control. It’s the crux of the serenity prayer, is it not?