Vocabulary Lesson #43: Mystic Rhythms

wonder
unknown
disbelief
capture
escape
primitive
glimpse
unexplained
entertained
restless
canopy

Bonus:
supernatural

 

from: Mystic Rhythms

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Thirty. Nine.

Had my 39th birthday this past Labor Day. It was a lovely weekend, though I’d be pained to call it celebratory. Spent some wonderful time with my sister and her family, with my parents, with my inlaws, with my husband. It was fun. There were presents (a surprise) and cake (not a surprise.) There was lots of love and hugs and kisses. My family loves me, and I am more grateful than words can express for their kindness, patience, and generosity.

But (you knew there was a but) 39 is odd. Like an ill-fitting shirt that needs a little more fabric softener. It’s not hard like 29 was hard – there wasn’t a panic attack involved this year. It’s just melancholy, I guess.

There’s the knowledge that experience has bought, and hopefully a little bit of wisdom. But mostly there’s the feeling that you know less that you have ever known, except now you have a mortgage and a marriage and a job. I’m supposed to have at least some of this figured out by now.

And then you have your annual physical, where your doctor doesn’t mention the expiration date on your eggs but does mention that you get to have your first mammogram next year. Get to have. Like it’s a reward. And maybe it is.

But you realize that something subtle and powerful has changed. I’m young. But not young like I was a decade ago. Or maybe I’m younger. Though my knees will tell you different. It’s hard to tell, most days.

Most days that aren’t tonight. When I see can time creeping at the edges making its mark upon my flesh. Scratching lines on my face. Turning my eyebrows white. My eyebrows! I kid you not.

And now I want to bitch-slap time for being such an intolerable whore. Why the eyebrows? Why can’t time make my legs go bald instead?

Time is an asshole, that’s why. (Sorry for the language, Mom. Love you.)

Anyway. If you bump into me, do a girl a favor and don’t stare at my eyebrows. I know they’re turning white, but at least they’re distracting me from the other tortures of gravity.

But let’s not talk about all that right now.

The Stars Look Down

Like the fly on the wheel, who says
“What a lot of dust we’re raising”
Are you under the illusion
That you’re part of this scheme?
Seems like a lifetime ago
You could look with pride
On your world of dreams

What is the meaning of this?
And the stars look down
What are you trying to do?
And the stars look down
Was it something I said
And the stars look down

Like the rat in a maze who says,
“Watch me choose my own direction”
Are you under the illusion
The path is winding your way?
Are you surprised by confusion
When it leads you astray?
Have you lived a lifetime today –
Or do you feel like you just got carried away?

What is the meaning of this?
And the stars look down
What are you trying to do?
And the stars look down
Was it something I said?
And the stars look down
Something you’d like me to do?
And the stars look down

The stars look down

-Rush, The Stars Look Down, from Vapor Trails