No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again.
Try Better
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Thank you, Samuel Beckett. I am such
a fool. No matter. A good thing about old age is that I am a fool with much
less baggage. Physical and otherwise.
When I moved to Mazatlan on the
Mexican coast I significantly pared down the “stuff” in my life. For example, I
had accumulated approximately forty bath towels, decent quality. How many
towels does one woman need? One in the laundry. One hanging on the rack. One
folded, on the shelf. I confess that I brought six.
Clothing? I turned my back on full
closets. I kept lightweight cottons and a couple casual dresses, three sets of
clothing for visits to cold Montana. (They breed in the closet, but no matter.)
Kitchen items. I brought little and
have given away much of that. I mix and make everything from scratch, by hand.
It’s amazing how few tools that requires.
In March I did something I thought
I’d never do again. I bought a house in Etzatlan, in the mountains near
Guadalajara, a wee casita, lock, stock and barrel; whatever they left was mine.
I was excited. I moved in and had an immediate revelation. I am a fool. What
the owners left was trash. I got to clean it up and throw it away. Lucky me.
What’s done is done. My neighbor
Josue, or Josh if you prefer, is a young man of many talents. He agreed to
build me kitchen cupboards to replace the crumbling press-board garbage that
barely held up the sink. No, that’s not
right. He didn’t replace the old but created a kitchen to fit my needs.
We took our time, a commodity of
which I have unlimited amounts, at least for today. Josue rebuilt my kitchen
and it is perfect. Everything fits. Everything is beautiful. Now he is working
on a wardrobe for my bedroom. The bathroom cabinet, crumbling and warped, will
be last to go.
It’s a process. Some of my ideas
won’t work. I let him know that this old woman doesn’t mind being told straight
up, “That won’t work, you old fool.” We laugh.
Out of my experience with my new
home, I’ve come to be thankful that nothing in the house (except the house
itself) was decent. Once again my initial judgment, thinking I’d bought a pig
in a poke, was wrong. If the stuff had been good, I would have slapped on a
coat of paint and lived with what was here and not received the joy I have from
creating new to suit my exacting needs, unerring sense of style and impeccable
taste.
Some baggage is easily shed. I’m a
woman of seventy and some. Image, that bugaboo of the young, became of no consequence
long ago. I walk with a cane. I accept help from young people without a qualm.
Rules I grew up with are meaningless. I eat when and what I want, sleep when I
want, following my body clock.
I wish I could as easily shed my
certainties. Much of the time I am aware that I know nothing. What a relief
when I know I don’t know.
When I think I know, more fool I,
I’m always wrong. I have no idea what is good and right for you. I barely keep
track of what is good for me and that is only for today. Tomorrow has its own
uncertainties.
I used to think if only I “knew” I
could exert a measure of control. I laugh at myself today. Control is another
illusion I’ve thrown on my personal trash heap, though I pick it up and brush
it off from time to time, wondering if it might not be useful.
For me, and I don’t recommend it for
you, life is more fun, more adventurous, more flexible, when I don’t have to be
right, when I’m wrong, when I’m a fool,
when I get to try again.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
May 19, 2016
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