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Sunday, March 16, 2025

Elation

Elation has been rare.

Moments of happiness, yes,

because that is accessible and can be

stimulated from the outside.

But elation is an inner thing.

One might say you either have it or you don't.

Truer to say we all have it—

it's one of those birthrights,

like creativity.

 

At a young age you might have been squelched

by the killjoy who,

wittingly or not,

felt it his/her duty to take you down a peg—

over and over

or just one time at a crucial juncture.

When sat upon, the joy of a child

learns to suppress itself

and that joyful energy, frustrated,

turns to misery and depression

or to a sharp-tongued defensiveness

that, like the thorned thicket

round Sleeping Beauty's castle,

repels all suitors.

 

Healing can happen,

in the right circumstances,

re-opening the possibility of elation.

Aim for it.

 

 
Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
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Sunday, March 2, 2025

Choosing Idleness

I seem to be playing a little game with myself these days: how far can I go? I'm assuming—rightly, I hope—that the answer to that will become clear at some point.

 

How far can I go in dropping activities before I dissolve into a big puddle of indolence? I don't have a lot of experience with this. I've spent my life doing, sometimes from necessity, sometimes to counter what I fear is an innate laziness—the kind of laziness that brings shame if someone else sees it.

 

This fear's long history dates back to my childhood. In my memory (which may not be reliable), all I ever wanted to do was read. I see this now as an escape mechanism to avoid my more extroverted, noisy family. But maybe I'm making this up. At any rate, I do know that as a child I read constantly. I did other things: practiced the piano, made good grades (essential if you wanted parental approval in our family), and performed my chores no more reluctantly than did my siblings. Nevertheless Eileen, my mother, saw me as lazy. So she called me, whenever she saw evidence of this trait, "Queenie."

 

Carrying Queenie in my subconscious for these many decades made me pretty sensitive to the question of laziness, so I've always worked hard. I've not ever been a decent housekeeper (though I did used to vacuum, I'm sure) so I deliberately did other things to compensate: I made all our bread and cooked our meals from scratch, sewed clothes, knitted, and volunteered. Now we have the blessed Cristina who comes twice a month to do the cleaning that I won't do.

 

My game these days consists of dropping one activity after another, leaving my days (and most definitely my evenings) as empty as I can make them. I think I want to see how I will fill my time once I have, say, two or three weekdays totally empty. Will I just read more? Do more Ken-Ken puzzles? Or will I remove myself to a quiet room and practice my tai chi or meditate for longer periods? Or perhaps I'll rebel, leap up screaming from my chair and race to the kitchen saying, "I can't stand this idleness! I'm going to make six piecrusts and a new batch of walnut-buckwheat crackers. I'm going to make bread until the freezer can't hold another loaf. No more lolling about! Time's a-wastin'." And so much for idleness.

 

 
 
Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor
 



 

Sunday, February 16, 2025

Saying a Hearty Yes! to Adventure

Leaving the house to go to the opera. The adventure of it. Clutch (oh, lightly) the railing as you go down the steps. Look at the flowers and see the weeds--but still, look at the flowers. Here's the next set of steps. Railing. Sidewalk.

 

Dog-person coming. Flat-faced stupid dog. Don't be unkind. Cute doggie with humanoid face. That's better. Stop judging. Dog owner overdressed for the job: must be going off to work as soon as doggie poops.

 

Uneven sidewalk. Navigated it well even though ankle twisted a bit. Coulda been worse (our family motto). Delivery van coming. Will it stop at our house? More likely it's for the neighbours because deliveries are usually for them, not us.

 

Crowd of young people around the subway steps. Do they not have mothers? Do mothers no longer teach courtesy? Stop standing right beside the hand-rail, you idiots! Some of us have to use the rails. And may fall if we don't. I don't say such things aloud, of course, but my inner self screams quite loudly. If any of these louts has good ESP they'll hear it and wonder why the old lady is mutely yelling at them.

 

Probably no ESP in this group. Is the midriff really an attractive body part? Well, I guess if you want to show off your navel ring you have to bare the midriff. But still...

 

Lady with stroller at the top of the steps. I used to offer to help carry strollers down the subway stairs. I'd take the front end and the mommy could hold the handle. Now I don't even offer since I'd end up missing a step and we'd all tumble down like Humpty Dumpty, landing with stroller and baby on top of me. Broken bones all around. I feel like an insensitive brute when I walk right past but who wants a dumb conversation like "I'd help you if I were younger but just look at this decrepit self. Hope someone stronger comes along soon..."

 

Subway train arrives. Find a seat. Everyone's masked, thank goodness—and whip out the TLS that will last for this trip. Three seat-units away is a pair of middle-aged men, one of whom has a not unattractive but very loud bass voice. Mansplaining occurs. I thought that was man-to-woman, but apparently there's a version that's man-to-subordinate-man. He never stops talking, giving obvious and marginally offensive opinions on every topic of the day. Can I compete with this by reading an article on classic Greek architecture?

 

Shut him out. Reach the stop and—watch out, lady—don't cut in front of me—are you really in such a hurry?

 

As I walk south, a couple overtakes me, both wearing Sunday best. She's a fashionista, in her knee-length taupe wool coat, cocoon-shaped. Until she's walking ahead of me and I see the kick-pleat in the centre back. She's failed to remove the tacking at the bottom of the kickpleat and now I no longer see her as a fashionista. Or perhaps I'm so out of date that I don't recognize this as the latest thing—to leave in that tacking at the bottom and probably also to leave in the pocket-basting designed to keep the pocket from gaping as it travels from sweatshop to your back. Oh, I'm so out of the loop!

 

Wait. Where am I? I didn't know there was a curve here. Am I lost? Will I have to walk three blocks out of my way? Will I be late? Am I lost? No, there it is, beyond the curve. A familiar sight. I just keep going south. Am I late, though? Will I have time to pee before the opera starts? Anxiety, my faithful companion, enlivens every trip.

 

 
Copyright © 2025 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com
Audible.Ca: go to https://www.audible.ca and search for Ann Tudor
Audible.Com: go to https://www.audible.com and search for Ann Tudor