Crimenutely. A post from a five-years-ago New Year’s that–with a 2023 update–I think might be worth another look:
Let’s be clear: I could write at length about renovation in one of its generally accepted senses. I could write about the house we’ve been building and renovating for over three decades, and which still has a couple of unpainted surfaces of the original drywall for the interested to view at will (don’t call me, I’ll call you). I could write about my almost-complete set of DeWalt 20v Li-Ion cordless tools. Or about my heavy-duty Bosch hammer drill. My three chain saws. My small cement mixer. And I could wax lyrical about all the uses I’ve put each of them, and their dozens of forbears, to since 1986, and what I plan to do with them this year.
But, right now, I’d rather talk about headspace. Mine. Here goes:
I gave up making New Year’s resolutions years ago. No more “this is the year I finally build that wet room I’ve wanted for decades,” or “I bet that over the course of the next twelve months, if I just set my mind to it, I can transform myself from ‘frumpy old grandma’ into to the mischievous and energetic gamine who still lives inside me somewhere,” or even, “perhaps I can resolve to keep the McDonalds and Starbucks detritus out of the car for the foreseeable future, so that the mice don’t invite themselves in quite so frequently for parties with the leftovers, leaving their own little presents in the cup holders and the glove compartment as they go.”
None of that. Promising, and then acting on, such things is just too much work, and, inevitably, disappointment looms. Because no matter how desperately I want to have hit rock bottom in my life, I never seem to have goten there, and there’s always some place lower to sink. So, with apologies to those of you who know me — tired, messy, bewildered, grumpy, overweight, and clumsy Granny is pretty much what it is, for the duration. Get used to it. Deal with it. Love it, or leave it. I’m working on being fine with it, either way.
What I have tried to do for the last several years though, is use the “New Year” as an excuse to review where I am in relation to others in my life; the good things I have done and (shock, horror!) the transgressions I’ve committed. And I try to sort them out, clear them out and zero the balances, so that the new, refreshed, renovated me can go forward in a clean and uncluttered way, without whatever baggage that’s accumulated between me and others over the previous twelve months.
Now, (this will surprise a few of you) I’m not Pollyanna. Sometimes, my idea of ‘clearing the spindle’ (love that metaphor because it works with both my technology career and my crafty spinning/weaving instincts) involves telling others to buzz off or get lost. Sometimes, ‘cleaning my bowl’ (h/t The Buddha) fussles a few boogies in its own right. But, really, it’s about moving on, and sometimes that’s what it takes. More often, though, because I’m a pretty friendly and sociable being, it involves acknowledging my many faults, asking for help, forbearance, or forgiveness, and hoping that my friends understand that I’m as imperfect as they are. And then letting the chips fall where they may.
Sometimes I’m lucky, and those chips fall on my side. Sometimes, I’m not, and they don’t. Sometimes, I just don’t know where they fall. I can only do what I can do. It is what it is, and here I still am.
The best I can hope for, is a reasonably fresh start. Not exactly a new me, but the best that my tired, battered, befrazzled old self can manage in the circumstances.
Happy New Year, everyone! Here’s to the next few decades.
2023 Update: Well, I got that wet room. And another gorgeous bathroom my granddaughter refers to as the “fairy princess bathroom.” And a couple of spectacularly nice bedrooms and much else. The drywall is finished and painted. And I completed the house and farm, inside and out, with a little help from a few dear friends. I’m so finished with it all that I’ve actually gotten rid of some of my excess tools (the scaffolding, the concrete mixer, two of the three chain saws, for starters) and I’m simplifying much else as I go. (TBC, I’m keeping the hammer drill. You never know.)
Unfortunately, my darling Mr. Right isn’t around to share it with me, but I’m pretty sure he’s applauding from the wings. Thanks for believing me, for encouraging my independent spirit, and for setting me up financially so I could get it all done.
When it comes to relationships of any sort, I’ve done my best. Don’t think there’s a single one hanging out there which is waiting for a response from me. Sometimes, the opposite is true, but–as a wise man once said (the Internet isn’t sure who he was, but he must have been very wise)–“You can’t control what others do; all you can control is your own response to what others do.”
Boy Howdy.
And so. I think my spindle is pretty clear. And my bowl is pretty clean. And I’m quite happy with my life and my home. And my relationships going forward.
Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds (what ordinary woman, about to enter her eighth decade in this world could not?), and I’m still working on finding that 1976 gamine, who must be hiding inside somewhere. I’m encouraged, as I dodder into senility as one of the older members of the family, that most of the youngsters in it still seem to regard me as pretty “with it” and worth bothering with. Perhaps that’s the best I can hope for, at this stage in my life.
On the “gamine” front, many thanks to Angela Rippon (a delightful, very smart woman, and a media presence in my life for more than fifty years, who’s a decade older than me, and still a bit more flexible) for showing the flag for us geezers on BBC’s Strictly Come Dancing (the original show on which the US Dancing with the Stars is based, and one of the earliest versions of which Angela presented more than 35 years ago.):
Bless. Keep in mind that her professional dance partner (who seems like a total lovebug) is just over half-a-century younger than she is.
I wish you all the best of all possible New Years. May you all find ways to clear your spindles and clean your bowls. Start with that, and reality, clarity, and sanity will surely follow.
Ignore the clearing and the cleaning, and the path to peace isn’t so easy, because the nexus between “finding peace” and “fooling yourself” is inversely proportional to the amount of fatuous driveling you indulge in yourself and insist upon from your supporters.
Or so I–rather more a proponent of harsh reality indicating true affection than that of comfortable, fatuous driveling on any side–have found.
PS: I’ve even fixed the problem with the car. The mice aren’t so happy. But I am.
