I woke earlier today than I have been waking in recent months. The extra time of darkness and solitude could have given me an infusion of serenity if I had approached it properly. But I did not. I skimmed the news. I followed the same routine I almost always follow, despite my almost daily promises to myself that I would do this day differently. I allowed myself to engage the day as if were an opponent; an enemy to conquer. An obstacle to overcome. So, instead of darkness behaving as if it were a soft, warm, soothing blanket, it seems more like a suffocating polyethylene bag over my head. My efforts to extricate myself have gone nowhere. I want to breathe slowly and think softly and embrace the coming light as a positive force. Instead, I permit national and international news—over which I have no control—to thrust my head under water, starving me of oxygen. I long for peace, but instead I cultivate rage. Some days, feeling fatigued—almost impossibly tired—I try to renew my energy by “napping” while listening to soft, soothing piano music. Maybe that is what I need to do today. Retreat to bed and let the music drown the rage.
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My oldest brother and his wife are celebrating their wedding anniversary today. At least I assume and hope they are, inasmuch as today is the day. Celebrations take many forms, from frenetic festivities to quiet contemplations and everything in between. Birthdays, too, are like that. The levels of excitement they generate varies from raucous, jubilant, public expressions of pure joy to private acknowledgements that, for all of us, they are limited. And there must be at least a thousand other ways to make note of birthdays. I tend to acknowledge my own birthdays in a very low-key sort of way. Almost two months ago, on my 72nd birthday, I wrote on my blog: By the way, today is my birthday. I can tell by looking at the calendar. Some people take milestones like anniversaries and birthdays extremely seriously; others not so much. I think the degree of importance we assign to such occasions is contextual; it depends on what else is going on in our lives. This coming Friday is another anniversary in my life; it will mark the fifth year since my wife died. Whether I will do or say or write anything publicly about it on that day has yet to be seen, but I am certain I will mark the sad occasion privately. Perhaps I am writing about it now, a few days beforehand, as a way to prepare myself for a resurgence of grief. Grief still surprises me. After all the billions of people who have lived and died on this planet, we still have not gotten used to the reality of death.
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More chemotherapy tomorrow. I still haven’t taken steps to recharge or replace my car’s dead battery. And I have not rescheduled the haircut I postponed last week. And I have done nothing else productive for what seems like an eternity. Despite my slothfulness, I was rewarded last night with a nice spaghetti and meatball dinner, prepared by mi novia’s ex-husband, who invited us to share it, along with my late wife’s sister. I feel guilty for accepting such generosities while I do nothing generous for others. My mood this morning is, thus far, rather dismal. I have only myself to blame, of course. But instead of “fixing” it, I just complain. The sun will rise in a while. Maybe the light will improve my attitude. For now, it’s good that I do not have the ability to take preemptive action against governments and idiotic cultists. But I think I would thoroughly enjoy causing the chaotic horrors I would rain down upon them.
