Beached in My Back Yard

 

Beached in My Back Yard

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Christmas is a-coming soon and although there are only five couples and me in residence at the Rancho at present, plans are afoot and afloat for communal gatherings.

Me, I’m trying to respectfully decline invitations while ignoring judgmental comments without cringing. I cringe. We all would prefer our friends to understand us, right, to support us unconditionally, right?

Back-story first. When the Covid pandemic hit, most of us here masked, bought disinfectants and hand sanitizers by the gallon, isolated and generally took great care when we had to be out and about.

Gradually, as we’ve all seen, restrictions became really tiresome, we lined up for vaccinations, or not, and cautions fell by the wayside. Like litter.

Me? I found the time to be a gift, a gift that nudged me to simplify my life even further and to explore inward spaces rather than outward adventures.

More back-story. In pre-adolescent days, I yearned to be a Carmelite nun. Quit snickering! I’m serious. I was filled with Catholic passion and, no doubt, romanticized convent life. The Carmelites were neither teaching nor nursing sisters. Carmelites led a cloistered life, a life filled with prayer and devotions, hidden from the outside world.

What happened, what erased my childish dreams? The usual: adolescence, raging hormones and boys. I never gave the Carmelites another thought, oh, perhaps brief moments of laughing at myself immersed in marriage, babies and baking pies and such.

I believe the Universe loves a laugh and why not!

Instead of a convent from which I would have been booted, no doubt, post haste, these many years later I get to be isolated in a different form of Paradise. For me. For me, it is Paradise. My gift of a semi-cloistered life.

Fortunately, I saw the gift immediately, accepted it, unwrapped it, saved the ribbon, and began living it. I like it. I am happy. I am content.

Some of my friends cannot accept that I am happy. At times I wonder if they ‘need’ me to be haring off hither, thither and yon, to town, to the beaches on the coasts, to restaurants, just go anywhere, why can’t you, why don’t you, why won’t you?

In their voices, in their questions, I hear judgment. I hear, Poor thing, she is afraid to leave, afraid to get sick. She’s giving up on life.”

I’m not afraid to leave. I’m not afraid of being sick. And I am more alive than I have been in many years.

My truth is that I’ve found deeper life. For me. Those two tiny, important words—for me. That sounds sanctimonious and I hate that it sounds that way.

That which I am experiencing now is simply the present chapter in my book of life and I’m fortunate to have lived through many varying chapters. This chapter won’t last forever. None have. So far. I do not know tomorrow.

I very well recall past years when I could go nowhere without a book, just in case there was a spare minute. I had to be doing, doing, doing, something, anything, terrified to be alone with my own insides.

In my backyard, I’ve a special place (I just mis-typed palace for place) where I like to sit, sun or shade. Some days I take a book. Some days the book stays closed. I don’t have a rule.

I visit neighbors. I go to town, rarely, but I go if I have need or want. Right now, I prefer to keep precautions for better health in place.

Please, go to the coasts, to the Big City. Go and enjoy every adventure. Have parties. Show me photos, tell me stories. I enjoy that you go and have good times.

Please, know that I am not bereft. I am not in a prison of my own making. I am off on my own special adventure where every day is a different treat.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December, the middle and stormy

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