To most people, January is the bleakest of months. The thirty one days are defined by arctic snowfalls, an avalanche of debt, empty cupboards, and withdrawal from seasonal camaraderie. Of course, let’s not omit the mighty culprit, those twin mixed blessings of reflection and reminiscence.
It has taken all of my 58 Januarys to realize that, whether or not I “reflect”, the outcome will be the same. So it follows that, unless I intend to react proactively, all of that nostalgia and its caché of mementos best be left alone.
Seal the crypt. Lock the doors. Close the plantation blinds. Close the tattered Fortuny draperies. Close your eyes.
I now deal with one goal at a time. When it’s completed, I move on to something else. Or not. Yes, my “consciousness” is indeed streamed. But it’s the only way I can deal with a month like January.
Lists are to be left to the more obsessive spawn of the Devil. I was once so cursed and stymied. My heart now responds with “it’ll keep” or “there’s no hurry”. My mind simply acquiesces.
But in my dotage, I finally am free of my obsessive compulsiveness. I finally am free to be a friend of Marlo’s.
To think, this new state is all a result of retiring with a bloody disability.
The irony of the Universe. The irony.
(Image: “Pearl, Oyster, Fruit” by Anton Seder, 1890.)