My 37th birthday cake and its creators at 5, 5, and 2.
Wistful. I guess that would be the word.
It could have all been so different.
I think I subconsciously imagined that, after blogging self-indulgently for ten days, I would have some insight into where I've been and where I'm going.
But, alas, I do not.
I guess sixty is no different from any other day ~ LOL! Some unbloggable stuff going on, which is clarifying, but hardly at a stage of resolution. And the resolution will not necessarily be to my liking. A wedding Saturday night ~ the daughter of friends ~ our first attempt in four years ~ in which the pain of all-that-will-never-be bored its relentless hole right through my fairly well-honed capacity for dissociation. (Just pretend this isn't happening and you aren't here.) I'm still feeling the after-effects.
On the plus side: My Lovely Daughter took me to see The Lion King on Friday night ~ such an incredibly creative show! ~ and my church celebrated after worship yesterday with a potluck. More cakes at dinner last night and then at a gathering of friends.
On the down side: Having paid no attention to the combination of day and date, I am spending the evening with a family connected to a church in my Presbytery who lost a husband and father to suicide ten days ago.
Here's what I wrote on our Day 10. How well I remember those weeks and then months, curled up in bed with my dog and my computer, hoping that I would die soon. That's why I'm going to see them tonight, even though I goofed on the date.
I looked up ~ of course! the etymology of wistful. It seems to have something to do with silence and wishing.
Wistful it is.