Confession

All right. I admit it. I try to do too much. All of us, though I am speaking pretty much here for myself. After a week when we grocery-shopped, planted herbs and flowers for the Folger Plant Sale, breakfasted with a friend, carted a bookcase to the new house, ripped out a bamboo screen on the patio there, measured and photographed the fireplace there, bought sheets for the already-ordered daybed,  had rugs picked up to be cleaned, emptied assorted dresser drawers, started a bag of donate-able clothing, did laundry, visited the endodontist, bought books for the granddaughters, picked up packages at UPS, returned a pair of shoes at Zappo's, scheduled a locksmith, internet installers, HVAC technicians, an electrician, and researched patio door replacements and gas log repair -- topped it off with a play at Arena...and finished the weekend with a bang by working at the Shakespeare Birthday celebration at the Folger..I am ready to say that I cannot do it all.

It used to be that I could manage the three-ring-circus I call my life. When my memory was sharp, and my legs and hands and eyes could keep up with my brain, when it didn't take massive doses of extra-strength Tylenol to get me out of bed in the morning. I am slower. I can no longer carry a week's worth of groceries in from the car in a single trip, or move tables, chairs, or bookcases, not to mention bags of potting soil and pots. I keep a notebook and cell phone close at hand to remember what I need to do, say, find, buy, plan, or show up for. I am--in a word--getting old, and it is hard to admit it.

But that wasn't what I wanted to talk about (another creeping deficiency there: distraction.) In spite of all my insufficiencies, the slowdown doesn't bother me as much as it did at first. The physical stuff--deteriorating eyesight (damn it--cataracts are for old people!), arthritic thumb joints (ditto), a tricky middle finger, and ankles that swell in protest every evening-- is annoying, but I can handle it. What is difficult is reconciling what I think I can do with what I am capable of doing, reconciling my self-concept with my real self. My brain says off-handedly, "Well, we just need to spackle a few spots and paint that room," while my body says, "Not on that ladder, sweetie!" My brain plans the patio and the plants that I'll haul in from the nursery, while my back snickers at the prospect: "You want me to do what?!?"

It used to be that a move like this could be accomplished in two weeks flat, at the end of which all goods would be stowed, I'd know where everything was, and we could settle back into normal life, whatever that is. That is when I'd contemplate moving a piece of furniture, or relocating the contents of a cabinet, or maybe even paint a room. A wreath would be on the door, I'd have half-forgotten the password for the storage space, and we'd be back to regular meals of an evening.

It has been three weeks and I am nowhere near that state. I have run out of kitchen cabinets with more than 6 or 7 unemptied boxes labeled "KITCHEN": boxes full of what we affectionately (!!??!!) call "LS" (otherwise known  as 'little shit') --all the stupid little pieces that the packers carefully wrapped individually in packing paper--valuable items like stray keyrings, multiple bottle openers, expired library cards, a bowl full of foreign coins...Where did all this stuff COME from? (I know: the kitchen.) I have unwrapped buckets of refrigerator magnets, markers, pens (gallon bags of pens that went directly into the trash.) I am waiting..just waiting..for the box that contains only crumpled paper, carefully wrapped in crumpled paper. I have a box cutter permanently riding in a holster on my hip, and know the location of every recycling and/or donation center in the area, what they will accept, and when. BUT, I am at least a week behind schedule, and who knows when I will catch up. It's depressing. And exhausting. I wake up every morning feeling as if all my joints need a shot of WD-40. And you may have noticed that Extra-Strength Tylenol stock has skyrocketed lately.

However. I've managed a meal or two out of my desperately unorganized kitchen. I've (sort-of) cleared the living and dining rooms. There is an entire second-floor bedroom that appears to be full of virtually-untouched boxes (though you should have seen it last week!) The master bedroom still has one wall of boxes in various states of transition, and JC has command of the top floor bedroom/ map and book repository. All I know is there are files aplenty up there, and books, and not enough bookcases or cabinets for them. That goes (I fear) for the entire house. We don't have too many books (china, glassware, arks, wood pieces, maps, etc.); we just don't have enough shelves (cabinets, walls, tables, etc.) People just don't understand.

The garage-level room is more-or-less a staging area right now: goods in transit from the storage space or the old house, goods going TO the storage space or to the dump or to the recycling center, sometimes just to the garage. Bit by bit, box by box, we are looking less like an episode of "Hoarders" and more like our usual selves (who bear a striking resemblance to an episode of "Hoarders", but let me preserve my illusions.)

It will all get done. Spaces will be found, or we will whittle ourselves down to necessary stuff. Big shit vs. little shit. Maybe at some point, I will get to the patio and plant some flowers.

It might be next spring.

Heart

They said his heart stopped-- 

but they didn't know him. 

They didn't know  

that he'd given his heart    

to daughter,  friends, 

students, colleagues... 

to some he didn't even know 

by name. 

They didn't know  

that gifts like that don't just stop. 

They are bits of eternity, freely given: 

warm and vital,  

animating divine sparks 

of faith and hope and love, 

binding us closer, making us one. 

He did that. 

They say his heart stopped. 

I don't believe it. 

Love doesn't die.