It is possible to love the gift after the love is gone. Kevin sent me this CD because he knew I would appreciate it. I do. Whenever we stayed out in bucolic Bridgehampton, he used to practice classical guitar in his living room while I read or wrote in my journal. Those quiet afternoons still resonate. This song, The Last Tremolo (not the actual title, but called that because it was Barrios' last tremolo piece,) reminds me of that relationship -- effortful, sweet, sad, and final. You, my friends, wondered why I stayed with him for five years when he always kept me at arms' length. This is why: He wanted to love me. He went through the motions in some hopeless desire to behave "as if" he loved me. It never worked, but I honored the attempt. Man, that was a lot of work ... for both of us. So, this morning, as I sit curled up on the sofa with my morning coffee, listening to the CD he mailed to me long after we broke up, Music of Barrios, David Russell, Guitar, I realize with deep gratitude that I no longer have any loving feelings left for this particular man or any of those men who came before him. Nor do I resent them. Here I sit, warm and cozy on a cold rainy morning, the smell of nearly-done corn bread wafting down from the kitchen, listening to gifted music. I am at peace with all of my former lovers, David, Mark, Dan, and the others. Goodbye. My work is done here. The roiling emotion is gone. It was lovely, but I'm so glad to be on my own. (The last line in appreciation for Joni Mitchell.) 

     It's funny, the further I get from having a relationship, the further I get from wanting a relationship. Recently, I told a former boyfriend I was not interested in playing the role of long-lost girlfriend. It's actually an odd phenomenon, and has happened much too often - an old lover returns to see if I'm interested in renewing our dead relationship. Sorry. No. Lessons learned, and all that. It's happened five times. (And I like to say I've only had three serious relationships.) The oddest case happened twelve years ago when one of my first New York boyfriends showed up in California needing to "get closure." Closure! I was 19 when we broke up and 52 when he showed up. Holy Cow, and I thought I hung onto grudges! Things change, we change, and I'm grateful for both. The fact that I am remembered in my former state like a bug in amber, tells me just how little those men saw me as a living, growing, ever-evolving human being. I rate as an object from their past. Goodbye to that. Ironically, amber is my favorite stone - golden, gorgeous and terrifyingly (for the bug) petrified. Yes, we can look back with love, and remember shared history fondly... but, oh baby, it will never be liquid again.  

     At this point, I question whether I could fall in love. Could I blend my life with another? It seems doubtful. Maybe I am petrified, after all! Anyway, I'm in the midst of taking care of my own present-day life, and much too busy to contemplate the intricacies of male/female machinations.

     Happily, I'm in the midst of refinancing my little townhouse, and putting in new carpets. Hurray! Quality is important, since it will have to do until I am done. (I'm giving myself another 30+ years.) Each morning, I sit on my sofa in the living room, drinking coffee and drinking in the pleasure of having provided such a lovely home for myself ... feeling slightly smug and self-satisfied. Sure, it would have been a lot easier for me and my daughters if I had grabbed some guy by the collar and combined our assets. My daughters might have been able to afford college. Oh, well. <sigh> They are pursuing their own stars now, sans a university education. Hey, I went back to college at age 40. It can be done. There's no guarantee, but I hope they learned to respect my grit over the years. I've done my best, and I've done alright. God knows, I wasn't always the best mother. My younger daughter, especially, had a rough time of it. But I did what seemed best in each moment, and I did it alone. It would have been easier to navigate the rough spots with a loving partner back then, but at this point, love for its own sake seems moot. I can only shrug and await whatever comes next. My doors and windows are open to the future. A sweet breeze flows through. The past sits, lovely and still, in amber. 

Isn't that what we always say? November already? And time flies! And why do we set the clocks back, anyway?  Last year I embraced Hygge, the Danish "cozy company" concept for the dark depths of winter. The idea still beckons: a group of friends, food, spirits, stories, and a warm fire. Okay, I don't have a fireplace, but with enough candles... <shrug> Actually, that sounds too effortful. 

Let's face it, winter isn't my shining moment. I get depressed. Dark and cold don't do it for me. I don't ski, and the idea of getting into my car on a cold, rainy night and driving to the mountains for the weekend, or a friend's house for the evening, or really anywhere at all, feels icky. Winter is my cozy, stay at home alone time. Reading, writing, watching Netflix movies, and making soup all sound about right. Gatherings do not. I am becoming a Winter Crone. 

And speaking of Crones... I like that term. Maiden, Mother, Crone. After years of being marginalized as a "pretty girl," and then "just a stay-at-home mother," my age has finally given me cred. I am a serious and solitary woman. I hold opinions, speak my mind, and look askance at tom-foolery. I have a feeling the idea of a witch's Evil Eye was really the scathing look an older woman gives men who try to assert their supposed male or religious authority. After all, older women saw those men when they were silly little boys whining over a scraped knee, or hurt feelings, or a poopy diaper. In the old days, being looked at with a knowing eye was enough to send religious zealots into conniptions. And today, older women know their own strength because they have raised children (often alone,) and worked outside the home to help pay the bills or pay them in full. Older women have seen much and shouldered burdens without needing to brag, complain, or proselytize about it. We did what needed to be done. Our power now is in the knowing Evil Eye. 

No one has authority over another's life and body. We were all once silly babies, and we all return to dust. Religious zealots of every stripe are free to assert their beliefs on themselves, but they must not legislate their beliefs on others. This is the November of my life. November already!? A Winter Crone... I like it! Last year, Hygge. This year, Winter Cronery - a time to think, write, and practice my Evil Eye.
As always, ​I look forward to spring. 

~ cfd