I am of an age where I really feel like I have to take some inventory of what I’ve got, and what it’s going to mean for the next chunk of time.

I often feel as if I have NOT done so much. But i have done a lot too.

So, if I gather together the things I’ve done and the skills I’ve acquired I have a pile of something.

Huh. Look at that. Something.

One of the elements of that somehting is my womanhood. I spent many years taking that for granted.

Well, i used that womanhood to birth a child. So, there’s that.

But what is it to be a woman? How can I be the Best Woman I Can Be?

What makes a woman distinct from a gender-unspecified person?

Women do certain things that men don’t really do. Like…we say nice things to one another. And we are nice in little ways to one another that men don’t really think about.

A woman will say to a stranger in an elevator “Nice Shoes!”

Men don’t usually do that.

And women will ask other people “How are you doing?” and LISTEN to the answer.

That’s not much. But…I am trying to be more appreciative and sympathetic to the other human beings around me.

Yesterday, in a Del Taco, I was waiting a LONG time for my order. The girl who ordered after was also waiting.

She was young. She was beautiful. I was wondering, “Was I beautiful when I was her age? I may have been. I sure didn’t think I was beautiful”

Then I thought, I could tell her. What if someone had told me I was beautiful?

I could be a bitter old woman, thinking “I should lose 20 pounds, and I should get botox” while looking at this young woman.

Or I could appreciate her.

I told her…Awkwardly, but I’m pretty sure my subtext of “I’m not hitting on you” was adequately conveyed. I told her that i was looking at her and feeling old, but I wanted to tell her that she was young and beautiful, and that was a good thing.

Well.

I hope that it made her feel good. I am glad I did it. I hope I can have the courage to do that sort of womanly thing again sometime.

I’d love to age gracefully into an old lady who says, “You’re lovely, dear…” to all the people around me.

I don’t know if I’ll be beautiful or sexy like Cher…probably not. I can’t afford the surgery. But I can be nice to be around for other reasons.

I knew that.

There’s already a Shakespeare.

I was listening to an interview with an author and thinking, “How can I write so others want to read what I am saying?”

And then I thought…I can’t. I am nearly the last person who reads this blog, and that’s okay.

My books that I write are not much better, as far as readership goes.

But I can write.

Maybe it’s like flying. I can fly. Should that be enough?

I can dance. Shouldn’t that be enough?

I don’t necessariliy need the readers. Art is art.

A Dream Deferred

by langston hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

So i’m probably stealing Hughes’ poem. But at least I am crediting it.

I was thinking about that poem because of the “Fear saps passion” phrase from yesterday.

If I am full of passion, but I am afraid, isn’t that a hope deferred?

Yes. Yes. Yes, it is. And a hope deferred is a dream deferred.

I had a reason to think of Charlie Brown and Lucy, with their football trick today.

“Come on, Charlie Brown! I’ll hold the football for you!”

and he falls for it every time. He puts all this passion into running, and the dream gets deferred.

and he lands on his butt.

It is NOT the fault of his passion. It is NOT the fault of the dream.

Everyone knows that it’s Lucy. Anyone can tell it’s Lucy whisking the goal out of reach.

How many times do I blame myself?

“I should have snuck up on the football, acted all casual…then I would have had my chance to kick it out of the sky!”

It is NOT my fault. It was never my fault.

I have to find a new person to hold the football. And if I want to kick that football, I have to keep looking until I find that someone.