Slowly slipping back into my life

Drinking black tea, working on books, making something with fabric etc, etc, etc...

Welp, I read aloud three chapters today! Home and Far Away is back underway, lol, and wow it's a relief returning to that realm, not of the novel's setting, merely of my butt in the chair, working on revisions. I'm still adjusting to what I can't eat, like milk in tea and ice cream and cheese, but at least pouring through a manuscript is familiar.

And right now, familiar is WONDERFUL.

Sorbet is pretty nice too, a decent alternative to my fave Phish Food Ice Cream, sniff. When I enjoyed a bowl of sorbet outside yesterday, seating myself near the chickens, the chickens thought I was there to give them a treat, hahaha! Camilla paced back and forth as though searching for a break in the fence. The rest came and went, then finally all wandered off, realizing I wasn't there to give them anything but vocal attention and to treat myself with something sweet in the odd but marvelous warm October sun.

Blueberry/lemon and mango sorbet as the chickens waited for their share.

Afterwards I went inside and cut fabric; using a rotary cutter doesn't seem to harm my shoulder, woo hoo! I didn't ponder much other than how some selvedges eat into the yardage, but one of these days I'll use those not quite square pieces for a Kawandi quilt. I also pinned two small coasters to be stitched Kawandi-style, completing one last night, leaving the other for this evening.

But where does that leave a decent cuppa??? Oatmilk creamer is fine for coffee, and believe me I've enjoyed a few cups of joe with said creamer. Yet creamer is too thick for black tea and regular oatmilk is too, well, plant-like. LOL! But when in Rome.... Eventually I'll get used to it, I realize that, maybe after I can drink a few cups in a row. Currently I'm being careful not to ingest too much tea near a mealtime, as I don't want the tannins interfering with iron absorption.

REALLY? Past Me chirps. You're worried about iron absorption?

I nod, not wanting to give anything away.

Huh, she shrugs. Well, that must suck.

I want to roll my eyes, but again, spoilers.... Yeah, I say. It's, uh, kind of a drag.

That must be, she smirks. Then she stares at me. How old are you right now?

Fifty-nine, I reply, wondering how old this particular Past Me is. Is she still participating in National Novel Writing Month, I then wonder. NANO was how I got started in writing. It folded in April of this year, although I haven't done it in more than a decade.

Aren't you going to ask how old I am, Past Me then says smugly.

No, I answer, hiding a grin.

Huh, she mutters. But seriously, you can't put milk in your tea?

Breathing deeply, I realize this past version of myself is somewhere in her thirties, my age when we lived in the UK. I didn't start writing until shortly before we came back to America, after I turned forty. My goodness, that's a long freaking time ago, but as she continues muttering about no milk in tea, I tune out. My brother was dead already, that aged me significantly. Yet writing fiction managed to shave off the years, in part that one book dealt with my brother in a roundabout manner. And that writing was always my dream and there I was doing it and....

Hey, she calls, then clears her throat. How is it being that old?

I smile; she must be early thirties, a sibling's death notwithstanding. It's hard sometimes, but I'd like to think the acquired wisdom eases the arthritis.

Past Me smirks, then nods. Does it get easier?

I don't need to ask does what get easier. Yes, oh yes, I answer quickly.

Again she nods. Will life ever feel, you know....

Normal? I say.

She nods, blinking away tears.

My heart breaks a little, recalling how damn tough those months felt after my brother took his life. Yet so much good occurred, so much joy. What I currently need to keep in mind as my beloved home nation seems hell-bent on destroying itself. The pain fades, I say. The love you have for him eases it, oddly enough. Christ eases it too. Have you dreamed about the cassette tapes yet?

In noting that, I wonder if I'm giving away an essential fixed point within my history. She grins widely, wiping her damp face. I have, she smiles. He's at peace, if nothing else.

He is, I smile back, feeling like Future Me, handing down priceless admonishments. The dream to which I referred was a gift of God, letting me know my brother's suicide didn't damn him, but released him from some awful demon that in this corporeal world he couldn't excise. Then I'm reminded, but don't need to say to my past self, that life is a cycle of setting aside the miserable to find the kernel of utter joy, which explodes in our grasp to something so marvelous and pure that we are changed immediately if we can just breathe slowly, allowing that treasure into our hearts. Compassion, forgiveness, and love are combined into a balm that over time heals even the most traumatic wounds.

Then I wonder if Future Me is near; maybe we've morphed into one another. But it's only myself and Past Me, who is still wiping her face. She smiles, then walks away, leaving me with a strange sensation, not that another catastrophe awaits, only that I trod that ash heap and lived to write many tales. Not quite thirty years later, I'm still on my feet, thanks be to God.