what i make it.

I said I could do it. And I think I believed it too.

This moment is for classical music and a gulp of coffee.

Yes, after that pause, I am sure, I believed wrongly. Very much so. But isn’t that the way when we don’t know the routines and every little detail is difficult, just from the newness of it? Transitions are a terror. All that changing and feeling uncomfortably shoved into a mold that is not your comfort zone. There are surely those that enjoy this; thrive in it even. But I am not one of them, those changeful gurus.

No, no, I am best off here, drinking deep and wondering at the way all the trees seem to lean eastward. Or is it south? They appear eager for something and I am inclined to agree with them.

But she told me something today—a lady I labored alongside—“It is what you make it.” I presume she is not the first to think of such a brilliantly contented option, but she was the right soul to remind me. It is, I know it, I know it, what I make it.

There isn’t much sunlight left to see today, but I will be seeing with it for hours yet. I will carry a handful of it with me into the night and thank the trees for a lesson in leaning. It’s not always about loving where you are; it is always about loving whoever surrounds you. And if it gets me a little closer to the sun, I will lean too.

I pretend to still believe I can do it. That way I’ll survive. And when surviving feels less than enough, I’ll make it glorious. It is, after all, what I make it.

age.

There is a symphony in their faces—something delicate I suppose. But I prefer to say seasoned, or even weather-beaten. Not weak for the sake of it, weak for the many past years of strength. They have faced it, nearly the entirety of it, and we are pawns next to their knowledge. Life. They know the ins and outs, the troubles we believe shall never come to us and the victories we cannot yet recognize. We label them, “old people” and they call us “young hooligans.” But when the generations collide peacefully there is a depth of wisdom to be had.

There is something careless in their mannerisms. A way of living quite alien to myself. They do not bother about others’ estimations, they bother about the day. It is not, “what shall the world think of me this year?” it is, “what shall I be able to do today?” Certainly not all with age have such an ease, but certainly few without the age do.

I suspect it is odd of me, to want to share in their sentiments. I do. I want to feel less about how others see me, and I want to feel more in the victory of this day. Sip my coffee, elated at my taste buds, and walk under trees, awed. Proud to have the dishes washed. I can only wish to have a small piece of the wisdom that graces them; I wish.

I cannot yet speak as they do, saying whatever sentences I please, unabated. When such a young one does this, the mouths drop about the room and there is that awful sense that all was much better prior to one’s talking. When a seasoned one does this, everyone smiles politely and laughs about it later. “Oh to be old,” they say, “how it dulls the social queues and sensitivities.” Well, I like to think it is not a dullness to the unspoken rules, but a somewhat noble disregard for them, that prompts their unrestraint. “We have lived,” they cry through dentures, “and shall not pretend to be perfect as we once did.”

Hear, hear.

We young are a foolish lot, but it is the weather-beaten that best see our folly. They do sometimes judge us for it and we do always judge them for judging us. Silly.

If I could give a gift to us foolish, it would be this: That we might live joyfully accepting, “someday that worn one will be me,” and so we change.

foxes in the snow.

Tried to eat snow. But it was too fluffy and floated away from my reaching tongue. All this shuffling through flurries, wears me out in the good sort of way. Then it is the rushing as sled hits hill and I am sky-bound for a glorious collage of moments. I’m in a wonderland, if only for the last hour of daylight. And oh, the day this is now—so different from the one I awoke to. So much whiter and livable. Maybe hopeful.

After supper it is declared a time for development of art and intellect. Pens, pencils, books, paper. If only the little brother would stop jumping. But I would miss it if he did stop. Jump away. I will intellect on.

Of a sudden, he jumps and I see snow again. Curtsy and twirl. A dance of flurry fairies—all the forest has come to see. Little foxes prance with frost on their noses and tails. Between trees and across a frozen lake. We shouldn’t be able to see each other but for the oddest of unknowns, we do. A royal witnessing of wonder. I am not a queen though. I am a baffled bystander. Too often we make ourselves queens. I will be careful not to.

Just watch. And say thank you.

They smile—the intellectuals now—at their work on paper. And I look to mine; a grin of anticipation starts to crawl up my cheeks. But no good. It is empty.

Doesn’t seem to matter how greatly I think, there is no way of saying it. That’s that. So I must choose from these: speak and bewilder? Or just stick to thoughts, that I might appear correctly put-together? The choice is made, for this night at least. Don’t be so silly as to ask. There are words here.