last rose
Seated at the conference table, the pointy-haired boss says, "The best advice I ever received was "Be true to yourself." Gilbert says, "That actually doesn't mean anything." Irrelevantly as always, but with a connection that would've occurred only to him, Wally asks, "What was the worst advice you ever received?"
"Be true to myself" these days is not meaningless at all. Having too long ago settled into one of my three chairs here in 7H as the limit of my physical activity, months ago, with a retirement date established, Sunday 19 May 2024, I vowed to correct my sloth by taking a daily walk starting on Day One, Monday, 20 May. Prepping, at Linda's suggestion because of CHF limitations, I ordered the new red convertible, which for some last holdout reason I refuse to call my rollator, delivered coincidentally but most timely just as my sciatica returned for its occasional visitation; but it actually was for walking into retirement.
Mind, I am not an exercise person - - especially here in extreme old age. My two favorite activities are Sitting in one of my 7H chairs to read, think, or write, and Taking a nap. Sometimes, most intently, I write in a blue spiral notebook.
"Most intently" becaus writing longhand again after all the years of simply typing and watching the result appear on the screen in front of me, writing longhand requires focus and letting the fingers recalibrate themselves with the brain to form each letter. Furthermore, I write St Paul style with no spaces between words and no punctuation marks: it all runs together on the page as stream of consciousness. And, not cursive, which is a special skill, I print, uncials, majuscules, all capitals, uppercase. Why all this? One, because it requires concentration to avoid the habit of spacing between words, and concentration is part of the objective. I can type absentmindedly, I cannot write longhand without concentrating, and my mind needs to retain the ability to focus. Two, because I know I'll never go back and read it again. Three, to discourage anyone who, after my Time, might open the book, to discourage them from reading it. It's neither diary nor journal nor blog, and few or no secrets, but it's nobody's business but mine; surely not yours, nomesane?
Anyway, my promise to myself: to walk everyday, especially now having made walking safer for myself by pushing my red convertible. A promise is a vow and a vow is a promise to myself, and in some sense I try never to let myself down by breaking a promise.
Digressing again, that was modified the day I lamented to Gina that I'd broken my promise to my father by allowing Mama to stay at Community after her latest fall and the EMS coming out and taking her to hospital; and Gina assured and saved me with her advice, "Some promises can't be kept." Sisters can be extraordinarily wise, and she was, in so many ways. Mama was in her late nineties, and taking care of an elderly person who cannot walk three steps without falling, and who has continence and other issues. is wearing in the extreme for the caregivers. My sister's endorsement was salvific.
Anyway again, Monday and Tuesday mornings I walked. Monday down to the garage level, out by the pool and down the boardwalk that borders the Bay on the west side of Harbour Village. That was where I saw the wading bird, and a mullet jumping, jumping, jumping. Seeing a mullet leap assures me that I'm where I belong, home again.
Tuesday morning I walked round the garden grounds on Level Two. It's lovely, comforting, soothing, and most peaceful because there's almost never anyone else there, an enormous happiness of living at Harbour Village, the privacy. I walked, paused to relax at the pavilion, and walked. It was good.
Day Three, Wednesday was a struggle for some reason. Yesterday morning, after having gotten up at two-something o'clock, I napped later. But my vow kicked in, and after noon dinner of collards and half a crab cake from Maryland, and another short nap, I remembered Dilbert's pointy-haired boss, and walked. I'm trying to be true to myself by not letting myself down. Dilbert isn't always right. Sometimes the pointy-haired boss is right after all.
Dilbert was a favorite comic strip because I've worked with the same characters, in government and in private industry, and actually also even in the church. A regret is that Dilbert's artistic and imaginative creator, Scott Adams, opened his mouth to spout racist hatred and so got Dilbert closed down instantly. Here's the last strip in the online Dilbert archive. The archive was taken down when Dilbert was cancelled, but it's still accessible online if you search, as I did yesterday. Somehow, knowing Adams better now, it's not as entertaining as it once was.
On yesterday's walk I paused to open a package containing my new sun hat (photo soon, maybe), and I snapped a pic of the roses that are blooming in the garden (top pic). The roses are fading, which reminded me of the first line of Thomas Moore's poem "The Last Rose of Summer"
'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes
Or give sigh for sigh!
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one.
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?
Unlike Moore though, I've not found this world bleak, but magnificent and a joy to experience. As the preacher said those years, Life is short, and we haven't much Time.
RSF&PTL
T88&c