The grass in my little garden has begun its annual winter death, hastened by the endless traffic of feet as potential buyers of our property traipse through. It’s the end of year-long trial separation for my husband and I, and he has put the house on the market. My hopes are pinned on a buyer who will allow me to stay on as a paying tenant in my little cottage. I am grounded and comfortable here and the proposition can only be favourable to the new owners; the cottage is rather eccentric in its architecture and would require a fair amount of work before it is marketable to more conservative tenants.
I continue to fiddle in my pots, planting things I can cart away with me if my bid is unsuccessful, but I remain hopeful and fight a daily battle against anxiety that I may be forced to relocate. I keep chanting the mantra that:
“Just for today, I will adjust myself to what is, and not try to adjust everything to my own desires. I will take my “luck” as it comes, and fit myself to it.”
As if God has stirred a spoon of sweetness and mercy into my cup of woes, I have become reconciled with my daughter. This has been a blessing above rubies and my heart is fit to burst.
Some months back I adopted a cat from a friend who was no longer able to keep her. Ally is almost ten years old and provides me with no end of entertainment. She is of a haughty nature and interacts with me strictly on her own terms. Her affectionate side seems only to emerge when I am wearing black trousers and she languidly twines herself around my calves, leaving me to look like an Angora goat from the knees down.
When the property is sold, my mother-in-law is to leave her comfy little flatlet in the main house and move to a retirement home. This pending move has spurred her to make endless shopping lists, as though she will soon be incarcerated into a maximum security prison. I’m kept very busy ferrying her about and she usually finagles a visit to a tearoom into our outings; she is concerned about my recent weight loss and is foisting all manner of sweet and savoury meals on me.
A fat slice of lemon meringue pie to load on some winter-beating lard.
In the midst of all this flux, I take heed of Louise Hay’s affirmation that 49 is the dawn of a new age and try to see all of this as the start of a new chapter in my life.
Be well, my friends, and count your blessing daily.