What started out as a desire to blog about my daughter's life has now become a quest for meaning and explanation. I'm 40 years old, I am accomplished and considered smart, and I spend a lot of time in wonder and amazement at the child I created. But I remain perplexed about so many things that I'm madly typing in the hope that some clarity will evolve. How serious? How true!
Today, my dad and spent time at my grandmother's house, sorting through her china cabinet and personal things, as she's living with my aunt, and dare, I say it, slowing down. How is it possible that life is reduced to just stuff? Just "earthly things?" I'd been thinking, "Oh, I need some Claritin, I should buy some," but having my dad hand me a cardboard carton with the contents of her medicine cabinet (ironically, Claritin included) made me never want to take it. All of her makeup was neatly, almost primly, labelled and organized, and yet, it was somehow awful, profane and vulgar. I felt bad for a long time, and visiting her made me happy and sad. She got so animated seeing Emerson zip around, and loved her sparkly sandals and long red hair, but when she turned to me and said, "I'm so frustrated. Why is this happening to me? This isn't me." I felt helpless. Here is a woman who was impeccable to the point of fanaticism in her grooming and presentation, now perched tiny and frail in a bathrobe. I promised to paint her nails when I see her next. She requested pink.
