no children

 

Today, we were meant to attend a wedding in a castle in Ireland, the whole shebang, dress code, timetable on specially printed stationary, cousins and counsins and cousins and eventually food and drink followed by speeches and dancing. But, printed on page 2 of the invitation with exclamation mark, strictly no children. I was conflicted, debating how to react and so on. We had composed a friendly letter wishing them a lovely day (without adding the snarky stuff like hoping there would not be any foolish mess, that nobody would be knocking down the decorations or singing out of tune or otherwise mess with the protocol) and declined due to other stuff like a couple of health issues and medical exams and so on - chronic illness comes in handy at time - and so, we are not going and won't really be missed. I haven't been to many weddings as we come from a generation of people who, if it had to happen, opted for the potluck variety and kept it down to a minimum of commercial fuss. My idea of a wedding is bit like a barn dance thing with kites flying and a couple of very cosy bean bags for the older relatives, a hot tub under the full moon and many candles. But it seems times have changed. No children.

As a sort of punishment, today, I feel like mush, shaky, tired mush.
For the last couple of hours I have been debating with myself about going out, walking down to the river - at least that far! - or maybe take the bicycle and get some cottage cheese and a fresh bag of peanuts for the jays, or find any other excuse reason to get up and move.

There's this thing that I have cultivated in the last year or so, the thing about pushing myself no matter what. And usually, it works. By the time I am up and outside walking or cycling or doing yoga or cleaning the fridge, wiping down basement walls, scrubbing the skirting boards or raking up leaves from the front door steps, I am energised and fine. For a while. I actually did rake the leaves earlier and come to think of it, I did scrub the skirting boards, even cleaned away a million spiderwebs from behind the radiators and changed the sheets on the beds this morning.
There was a time when I actually felt somehow strangely entitled to Take It Easy and taught myself to Own It and all that stuff they tell you when you are first diagnosed with a chronic illness. For reasons unknown (today), I have left all that behind or at least pretend that I did. Look at me, I would tell that woman in the hall mirror, I am off to walk 20,000 steps and when I come back, I will clean the 12 windows downstairs or dust behind the bookshelves for another hour. Meanwhile, the man tells me that I had very little sleep last night and that in his opinion, I should maybe better not . . . I get it.

 

It is still possible to be kind to yourself,
to drop constraints and fall often
to your knees, it’s not too late now, to bow
to what beckons, the world still swimming
around you as you kneel transfigured
by what sweeps on, it’s still possible
to leave every fearful former self
in the wake of newly-heard words
issuing from an astonished mouth.

David Whyte