Starting over at 60: story 1
“Change,” the wind says lifting the browning leaves from the limbs.
“Change,” the wild turkeys peck through the underbrush, unplugging slugs from soil slots.
“Change,” the does stamp at the dogs yowling at the gate.
“Change,” the squirrels natter with cheeks pouched with nuts.
All around me, change.
It’s a reflection of my state of being, and it’s a command. I have both willingly and unwillingly thrust myself into a perpetual and unrelenting state of instability.
I have no home— actual owned home. My beautifully designed and appointed manse has been sold. In a few weeks, we will hand the keys over to its new owners, who will find a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a welcome note in the Sub-Zero.
I have no job— unless a growing blog and an actual book deadline can be counted to bring dreamed rewards.
I have fewer things— having sold beloved antiques, custom draperies and linens and other trinkets no longer useful to me.
I have no professional wardrobe— my designer suits and purses consigned to professionals whose ambitions rise with the sun and sustain to sleep.
I have no pool— I’m floating in the depths of my mind rather than the leisure of my stately home.
But what I do have… ah, much still remains.
I have a second floor loft wilded with willful cats and dogs.
I have a burgeoning writing career, one I have chosen to fulfill my life’s dream.
I have essentials— items to sustain daily life rather than adorn.
I wear clothes for comfort and coverage, not for status and station.
I have nature speaking to me in ways that nature only can when one releases man-made materials and cleaves to the seasons, the sun and the moon.
I have my chosen family— those who raft the change waves with me.
I have chosen this. I have chosen to thrust my seasoned and settled life into uncertainty and scry.
I am starting over at 60. I hold in my hands only my own talents, my heart and my stubborn unwillingness to ever give up. It’s a pomegranate slit into sections, the seeds slipping from the pith, juices sluicing between my fingers.
They say Eve picked a pomegranate not an apple. Eve chose life and adventure and excitement. She chose to seek the unknown, to create new, to carry forth our species. Not that I believe in this biblical story as an absolute truth. I believe in picking the impossible. Grasping the unformed. Heaving the unthinkable. Eve’s daring is my goddess inspiration.
So stay with me, dear reader. This journey has only begun.
This begins a fourth thread of Walk the Moon. A new series, called “Starting Over at 60” will share my journey toward lifelong dreams. Will I succeed? Stay with me… I have no idea.
Walk the Moon 