Turning into Future Me

An uncomplicated pretty quilt top. Thanks Past Me for putting in the time cutting fabric, etc.

Sewing and walking slowly, Metamucil, and being happy about it all, lol.

Yes, this is how I felt today. Well, I was a little shouty on Bluesky, but that was the kind of thing that happens every once in a while because, well, I'm approaching the age where at times I don't give a fig. Where a notion pops into my head and it's like, "Oh yeah! And why haven't I thought of that previously?" Am I going to be a snarky old gal, hmmmm. Future Me is a wee bit...impatient at times, maybe not quite snarky, but certainly.... I just looked up the definition of snarky (critical, irritable, bad-tempered) and I'm not happy with any of those. Or maybe smirky is a better way to describe Future Me. Or some halfway point between the two.

Not that I can see Future Me smirking, she's actually not around. But as though I am stepping into her shoes, I feel that smirk creeping over my face, or maybe I'm inundated with Tia Sorenson; I've been reading A Love Story the last couple of days, and Smirk is Tia's middle name. Maybe I subconsciously based Future Me on Tia, or rather the other way around, lol. It's late, why am I even attempting to write a post? Because I finished a quilt top today, and I made the declaration below on my Bluesky account:

My question to Republicans, ICE, those who support the administration, RFK Jr., etc, etc, etc.... WHY DOES IT MAKE YOU FEEL GOOD MAKING OTHERS HURT?

It's weird to start a post noting I'm happy, then insert the above statement. Cruelty is abhorrent. How can I be content with such malfeasance in my nation? How can I be jovial when such abominations occur around the world?

Within my joy, prayers are said for those suffering all over this planet. Contained inside my peace are missives for that calm to reverberate as far as necessary. Sustaining my contentment are the memories of being made to feel utterly worthless and yet here I am on this Friday evening, smiling at the falseness of those charges. Over forty years ago my biological mother hurled accusations in an attempt to destroy my self esteem. My survival is at times an ongoing search for the brighter side of life, but mostly I'm at peace with the past. I use it to extend love and grace, and while not always successful, typically I am grateful for my repaired heart, because as I often say, a healed heart is capable of great compassion and tenderness.

Gratuitous shot of Owl Chicken, who was bopping around when I photographed the quilt top. Owl continues to do well for herself, bless her poultry heart.

I'll probably never travel to Afghanistan, but I can pray for women there, men too. Someone was praying for me forty-five years ago, and as recently as last weekend when I was unwell. And, welp, I believe in the power of loving intercessions.

Sometimes when Future Me comes around, I forget she suffered all the same shite as I did. She seems so far past all that, smirking and at times a wee bit snarky. Mostly I feel like she's forever biting her tongue at my present-day antics, and while that could be because she doesn't want to give me unwarranted insights, often I think I'm trying her patience to the LIMIT. Do I make Past Me feel that way? She too seems annoyed by my intrusion, huh. Somehow my initial idea of what this post was going to be about has altered. Do I need to analyze myself this deeply? Isn't it okay to be happy even if one's nation is spiraling into a wannabe dictatorship? Can't I enjoy myself despite all the AWFUL things happening all over the freakin' planet? Doesn't God want me to be joyful?

Future Me just cleared her throat out of my field of vision. I'm sorry, she says, her voice contrite.

Quickly I glance around, and while I don't see her, I KNOW she's there. Sorry for what, I ask.

For making you feel so on edge.

Oh, uh.... I nod, because it's the truth, no use lying to my future self. It's okay, I say. It's a hard time to, uh, be us.

The smirk she's wearing rumbles ALL AROUND ME. Then she giggles, which makes me smile. She starts to speak, then coughs, then sighs. You're getting so close to me. It's weird.

The Metamucil, I query.

Yeah, the Metamucil.

It tastes like watered down Tang, I say.

Yup.

Yup, I agree. I drank Tang as a kid. Now as a fifty-nine-year-old grandmother of four, I'm drinking an older person's version of it. Sometimes I wonder how old Future Me is, or more rightly, how much OLDER than I am right now. And right now I think she's about three days older, like the veil between us is so thin I could sneeze and step into her shoes.

You could, she says softly. But don't, okay, she adds with a snort.

I won't. Because suddenly I am Future Me. Having been so sick just seven days ago brought home my mortality in a manner that only now am I grasping. That only around myself can Future Me let down her chipper guard, because she knew I was going to be REALLY SICK but couldn't tell me, and all the other hoo haa she grasps, and it's one thing to want to make others feel better, but how do we look at ourselves and say, 'Hey, slow down! Take it easy. Enjoy this day even if you know others are hurting like hell.' without sounding 1) like a complete idiot; 2) like we don't value others' sorrows; 3) so wanting to give warnings or advice but knowing we can't. All we can do is pray and bite our tongues and....

Yeah, all that, Future Me says in a voice that is more like a vigorous nod.

I nod back. So I'm to just keep staying the course, right?

She smirks, nods again, then smiles. And drink the Metamucil.

And walk slowly, I smile.

Yeah. And pray for more love.

She touches my shoulder as she says love. I nod. And that's the end of this post.