Wall Repair III

Much to my surprise, I was actually able to convince myself to get out of bed before six this morning - on a Saturday! I will admit to long having grown weary of my daily tussle with myself to get me out of bed. It's been better since I've been able to work from home most days a week, but I still spend more time than I care to admit arguing with myself about getting up to face the day.

This morning, with another 90+ degree day in the offing, and permission from my neighbor to start bright and early, the argument was cut short - I really did want to take advantage of what cool part of the day there would be. I managed to get outside and working on the wall by 6:30. (Turns out the work itself isn't what's been totally zapping my energy - it's working in the sun and the heat.)

I know, because instead of stopping like a sensible person when the sun started to get REALLY warm, I kept going on the wall. Just one more section, one more batch of mortar. See how well I'm progressing? I kept at it until I just wasn't able to face another batch of mortar mix. Several hours later, I'm still (predictably) over-warm and tired. Pleased with myself nonetheless. Sometimes, a few aches and pains are worth the tradeoff.

Turns out time spent patching the wall is great think time. I spent some time as I worked trying to calculate how soon I'd be done with the task; gave that up because it's too discouraging to look at all the work left to do. I spent more time thinking about what the heck I was doing out there - expanding on my thoughts from last week about wanting to do it because I'm not ready to admit I'm old.

It's true. I don't like to think that my youth is behind me. And it may not be yet, but it will be soon - however one wants to define youth.

I'm finding it hard to talk to people about it. They either dismiss me as being young yet, give me funny looks and tell me I'm doing great for my age, or just kind of indirectly change the subject. It reminds me of when I tried to talk to people about how I felt when Mom died back when I was in my teens. It seemed as if we didn't talk about it, I wasn't having trouble dealing with it.

Well, I can not talk about getting older all I want - it's happening. At the bottom of my not wanting to face it (and probably for my friends, too), is fear.

Fear of losing my ability to move, to think, to see. Fear of losing my health, for good this time. Fear of not being able to take care of myself. Fear of running out of days before I'm ready. Fear intensified by my worries for those I care for who are battling assorted ailments.

If I learned one thing from Libby when she was sick, it's that fear - not death, not illness, fear - is is the enemy of life. Fear can keep me from enjoying the days I have. I'm not going to let it; as least not this round.

Yup, all those things I fear might come to pass. It's also possible I'll get hit by the margarita truck tomorrow, and all my worrying will be for naught. Reality will probably fall somewhere in-between those two extremes. Which means I can enjoy today, the only day I have. I can revel in the tiredness of my well-used muscles, in baby steps taken, in progress made.

Fear's just going to have to try again another day.