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We’re sitting in the living room after supper.

I’m reading – Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret – can’t believe I’ve never read this before! Bill’s on his cell phone, checking the stats for The Open (they don’t like you calling it the British Open!), when suddenly my husband breaks the comfortable silence.

“Let’s go ride our bikes.”

After an eager and enthusiastic start a few years ago – all tricked out with the latest gadgets and gear – bicycling was relegated to the west wall of the garage where Bill’s Trek and my Townie Electra have hung upright the past three years.

Bill checked the bikes over, making sure the tires were all properly inflated and then, per my hesitation, we simply rode around the cul-de-sac / loop where we live.

And it was GLORIOUS.

I was transported to sensations of freedom and youth and experience and wondered why in the heck I’d let this joyous act of riding my bike pass me by.

Well, no more. The batteries on our odometers need to be replaced and Bill will have to install the bike rack so we can transport our wonder machines to any number of delightful trailheads in the area and then – then! – the splendid exhilaration of new vistas, the heady rush of wind in our faces, tunneled bike trails, glimpses of nature and wildflowers, deer sightings, blue birds, etc., etc., etc.! Even those tired muscles, sure to resurface after such an extended absence, won’t be without some small measure of satisfaction.

More to come, my friends. More. To. Come. 🙂

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My Kindle overfloweth.

The upper cabinets of my computer desk are neatly adorned with books – lovingly sorted by collection, color and genre – but my lifelong compulsion to continue in the acquisition of these cherished avenues of escape have required that I stack books horizontally atop the vertical alignments. Floor space in our sunroom, relaxing reading haven where I sit next to bright, open views of birch, Chanticleer pear and a hodgepodge of bird feeders, serves as a display vehicle for books in baskets beneath a funky woven bench I bought at auction some forty years ago. They serve as solitary sentinels guarding the small, seldom-used television in the corner. They hover alongside the swivel rocker where I sit on cozy chilly mornings, a hot cup of chai close at hand.

Bookshelves reside in nearly every room of our house.

I’m susceptible to enthusiastic book reviews and recommendations. My Amazon cart almost always contains a new selection (or two or three) to serve as buffer the next time something really ‘necessary’ requires purchase, a means to scoot our total amount adequately higher in order to bestow free shipping.

I hesitate ever so slightly, shrug as if to say ‘what the heck’ and click the Buy Now button.

Have I gone mad? Certainly, I’ll never read all these books, these journals, these poetry collections. Will I? Is that even possible?

Sigh.

My baby sister chides me for my book purchases, preferring to check out her books from a library. I get it. Books are expensive. You finish reading one and then what? With so many books in my queue, it’s doubtful a re-read hovers as even a remote possibility.

But books are lovely. They give me so much pleasure. They are – yes, it sounds both strange and cliche – like old friends. Even the electronic versions provide no small degree of sublime satisfaction.

This cat is unlikely to change. I’ll continue to read, to acquire, to covet more and more and more. What can I say? I do love me some books!

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Late in the spring of 2015, I decided to dust off my hooks and pick up some colorful skeins of yarn and start crocheting again, a craft I first learned when I was pregnant with my son who will turn 40 this year. After a short ramp-up period that initially required clearing the cobwebs and relearning the basics, I began in earnest.

Warm weather and seasonal activities intervened not long after that but now with wintry weather as the order of the day, I’m back at it and thoroughly love the calming movements of hook to yarn, the quiet repetition of stitches and the fabulous feeling of accomplishment when a piece is finished. Is it vain to admit I love to look at the projects I’ve completed – with my very own hands! – and to revel in the consistency of my stitches and to admire the look, the feel, the texture of my work? While by no means perfect or even the result of anything challenging in the way of design, I feel tremendous pride – and not a small amount of disbelief! – at what I have created. This makes me smile. This makes me happy.

There really is something to stepping outside one’s comfort zone AND to expressing yourself in whatever manner you wish to pursue with passion. A sense of pride and accomplishment – I’ve had too little of that in my life and I want more!

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While my heart stays true, more or less, my body will occasionally only feign loyalty. While I often curse rheumatoid arthritis, which I’ve known intimately now for more than fifteen years, for my morning-clumsy hands, slower movements, fatigue and declining strength, I am fully aware that it’s more than just an autoimmune disease wreaking havoc on my bod.

I’m getting older. I’m aging and no longer young. Things just don’t work like they used to. We girls used to make fun of Mom, with her aches and pains and cutting down on caffeine while hormones coursed through our teenage bodies and our skin glowed and we had slim, girlish figures (that we grumbled about then but would dearly love to have now). Oh, we had so much energy and enthusiasm, get up and GO! I understand it all now though. It’s here. It’s now. It’s – me. It’s where my own body is at these days.

And I guess that’s okay. Yeah, yeah – as the old joke goes – it’s better than the alternative. Besides, what can you do? Turning back the clock: NOT an option. We’re stuck. Time – and the elements – just keep rushing forward, unstoppable. Just as unrelenting wind and rain and hail and snow and the ever-glaring sun have continued their onslaught of this humble wooden structure, so too have the effects of life and her accompanying stresses, challenges, griefs and sorrows, exhilarating highs and debilitating lows, hardships and glories exerted their pressures, their effects upon us. But this structure, with its blistering paint, rusted hardware, warped siding and string-enhanced door latch, is still a thing of beauty. It continues to stand, weathering the elements, taking what’s given but still having purpose. Charm. Durability.

That is what I’ll be then. I can provide shelter, structure. I have use. I can provide comfort. I still have beauty. For I still AM. I continue to be. Until the tornado of life bears down on me, I’ll continue to stand. Even if I have my own blistering paint, warped siding and require my own enhancements – strings of a different sort, at times, to handle what comes my way.

Unlike this old shed, though, I’ve got heart. And passion. Drive and enthusiasm. Things I want to do yet, places I want to go. So while I may not have the energy or the endurance, the power or the agility that I may once have had, all systems are go. While the light is still green – and is sometimes yellow – I’ll continue on. I intend to make the best of it and enjoy each day. I’m still standing, weathering the elements of life. Yes. I’m still standing.