Morning Pages

Several years ago, one of my woman friends and I both read The Artist’s Way, which suggests that you sit down every morning and write, long-hand, for half-an-hour,your Morning Pages. I never was able to do that. But typing is different. I can type in ten minutes what it would take me a half hour to write. (Of course, the linking takes time; but what’s a blog without links?)
So, this morning I sit here in my nighshirt (I don’t like pjs), reflecting.
My mom likes to watch the sunset (some obvious symbolism there, huh?), so after dinner yesterday I took her outside and we sat on a bench near our building that faces west. We sat, quietly, each lost in our own thoughts.
Her feet and legs hurt when she walks. She can’t find shoes that look good (she’s still vain) and are still comfortable. She pretty much wears old shoes of mine that are stretched out and softened by wear.
I have a lot of shoes. That’s the answer to what women want, right?
I also have a drawer full of make-up. And a cabinet full of hair styling products. I’ve got to tackle both in the next few weeks and try to get rid of what I don’t use. The probem is, of course, just like with my clothes, I start figuring that I might wish I had them after I throw them out. Then I remind myself — hey! You’re going to be living in the woods. You won’t even have to bother getting dressed at all if you don’t want to.
I dread moving on to attack my mother’s 89 years of accumulated STUFF — in boxes in the back of the closet, filling dressers and bureaus and table tops. I’m determined to downsize my own belongings so that my daughter never has to go through this kind of purging for me.
But downsizing is really hard to tackle — most of all, of course, if it’s your weight.
Today I’m getting together with my band of women friends for brunch. We all bring something. I’m bringing dessert — a strawberry apple pie.
I like to cook. I just don’t like to clean. Or clean out.
Time to get dressed. And also compose the note that I always have to leave for my mother when I go out: where I am going to be, the phone number there, my own cell phone number, and the time I’ll be back. She seems OK if she has that kind of information handy in writing. Otherwise, she forgets. And then she panics.
It will be easier when we move next door to my brother. I hope.

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