Every once in a while you have a moment when you know life is good.
The teacher called the contents of yesterday’s poem excellent while the words were prosaic. As I drove home in the sunshine, it struck me that if all I have left is prosaic, it’s ok.
When I was younger, I was a brilliant yet creative and miserable drunk. I wasn’t happy with anything around me, I distrusted myself and with cause, and I drank and used drugs to hide these insecurities. Perhaps my art was prosaic, but it was ahead of much around me. Perhaps I couldn’t see my life, and so I was truly discontented and lost it all.
Today I seem to be able to see with a fraction more clarity. I still have that core of creativity. For this I am truly grateful. I find if I remember to take my camera with me, life offers good stuff. The words still follow…tho prosaically. I can laugh at myself, something I’ve never been able to do before. I no longer sit and bake my hangovers out on the beach in the sun, instead I see a dermatologist with some regularity. Instead of living with a man unwilling to look for solutions, I live in partnership with a man who knows where to find them. Instead of struggling with two kids determined to live life their way, I’m able to be there to support them if they need it.
Even if the weather is cold outside, inside me there’s a warmth that neither arthritis nor my slowed down brain can get rid of. I used to rant and rave against the inequities of life the year my eyes were at their worst. Now I’m my own best weather vane, and at last I can see this with humor though sometimes slowly.