Sherri Cornelius

This will be vague and rambling, but you’re used to that sort of thing from me, aren’t you?

So it seems like for the past year or so I’ve been figuring out what I want with my life, what has been bringing me down and where I need to improve. I remembered what joy felt like, gained a couple of new hobbies, and stood up for myself in new ways. Now I guess I’m done with that part, the discovery, and it’s time for action.

Action? Well that hardly seems fair. I thought figuring things out was action. That I’d be able to rest once I figured things out, that discovery would bring about the change I need, but apparently I have to do that part too.

But I’m so tired! Can’t you just do the first part for me, Universe? Give me a little kick-start?

Well, of course not. No matter how often I forget, no matter how much I wish someone else would take care of me, that’s not how it works. No one will carry me. No windfall will make my journey easier.

And I catch myself wishing I had chosen a profession instead of drifting all these years, but then I have to remember I would be questioning any of my established choices just now, because it is that time.

I laugh, thinking of how I thought I would be in my 40s. How mature. So stable. Secure in my self-knowledge. Of course, the more you know the more you realize you don’t know. I knew this a long time ago, but for some reason I didn’t think about it applying to my life’s journey, as well. Only to individual experiences.

I’m not saying the floundering is over, but I do feel a bit better. More creative and open. Ready to connect, and less judging of my failures.

Now I just have to figure out how to proceed and look for an opening.

I feel like organizing today, but I can’t seem to find a place to start. I finally figured out that when I get to this state, it’s because I need to declutter before I can organize what is left. So instead of staring at the mess or moving it from one table to another, I’ll think about what I really need and put the rest in a donation box.

I feel pretty proud of myself for taking what I learned and applying it to change an old habit. For a long time I felt like such a slave to my unconscious (and detrimental) thinking patterns, so it’s nice to have gotten to the point where I can bring them out one at a time and deal with them. I guess this is what they mean when they say you become more of yourself in middle age. You start questioning the things others have drilled into you as fact, and you decide what you believe to be true.

And then, I suppose, most start drilling their own true facts into others, perpetuating the cycle. Is this something we are meant to do? I guess we’re not drilling so much as stating the truth as we know it. Maybe it’s human nature that the first 40 years or so we absorb our truths from other people, because we’re not experienced enough to trust our own truths.

I’ve reached a place where even though I might not be able to state my truth clearly, I recognize it when I see it. I recently saw the truth in a book about creativity called The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. It is a small volume which tells me things I already knew but did not trust. I appreciate its compactness. Not a lot of jibber-jabber to fluff it up to an impressive size to the detriment of the message. I borrowed this from the library, but this one deserves a permanent place on my shelf. I’ll be putting it on my Amazon wish list.

So now I’m thinking a lot about what it means to be a creative person, how to not only accept that about myself but also how to celebrate it, and how to combine my creativity with my accumulated knowledge to let it manifest in my life.

I guess I’ve been in a kind of shock over the past few months, but as I was looking in the mirror today, it struck me: I’m 40. How the hell did that happen? How in the world did I become a creature that a man in his 30s (always my benchmark for solid adulthood) would not look twice at? How did kids born when I was an adult get to be adults themselves? Why is my hair thinning, my skin sagging, my body aching?

And the biggest question of all: Why am I surprised?

I’ve been calling myself middle aged for a couple of years. The main thing I’ve noticed is I don’t get as many appreciative looks as I used to, but somehow the age thing never played a part in my understanding. I thought it was just because I don’t take care of myself, and that’s part of it of course, but also it’s because my place in society is shifting.* And I didn’t ask it to! I’m still talking to people the same way, but more and more I find myself confused by their responses. People of all ages seem to be connecting with me differently, and I’m just now putting two and two together.

People seem less interested in what I say, but more obliged to listen; the folks who are dismissive and those who are intimidated seem to have switched places; I'm surprised when others seem to be put off by my enthusiastic manner. I fear it makes me seem unstable and/or on drugs. Being compared to a puppy was cute when I was 16, but now it seems weird. However, I think I still look good in a ponytail, but who knows?

Like I said, I’m wondering how I got here without noticing things were changing. But it’s pretty clear now that I’ve arrived at a destination. When I figure out where that is, I’ll let you know. It just struck me, is all.

Oh, I just realized the biggest question of all: Why don’t I know what I’m doing by now? Sheesh.

*I first typed “shitting”, which is also fitting. My place in society is shitting. Indeed.

Somebody just spam-commented every single post on my blog. And though the format makes it obvious it's the same spammer, it appears each IP address is unique, though I didn't check all 300 of 'em, obviously. That's crazy. Crazy spammers. That's the biggest reason to love Wordpress, their excellent spam filter. All I had to do was hit a button and they were all gone. But if I continue to get that much spam, I won't be able to check it for false positives like I have been. They are few and far between, but occasionally one slips through. So if your comment doesn't show up, holla and I'll go check the spam. I promise I haven't moderated you. I've only ever deleted angry and/or crazy comments, and that totals about four.

I don't know what in the hell happened to me, but I woke up early this morning, like five o'clock, when the hubs got up for work. I usually sleep right through his morning routine, but not today. It may be that my aching bones made it hard to get comfortable. I'm so old.

My mom turned 59 last week, and my dad will be 60 in August. My in-laws are in their late-60s. My step-daughter is married with a baby, and all my cousins' kids are grown up with mates and kids of their own. Makes me wonder where the time went. Have I done everything I was supposed to do? I know I have many years left, but I used to believe I had greatness in me. It turns out I'm just a regular gal after all. Even if I do something great, I've established my regularness.

It's pretty nice, actually, knowing I'm regular. Back when I thought I had a special purpose in this world I felt a lot of pressure. Now if I accomplish any kind of greatness, it's all gravy.

Like the lovable fool he is, my husband promised the children he would sleep with them in the tents in the back yard. And like the good mom/idiot I am, I agreed to sleep there, too. Actually, I agreed because the hubs said he didn't expect me to. I said, "Why not?" and he replied, "Because I know you." So that was one thing, I had something to prove. Another thing was that I knew he would let the kids drag their blankets in the dirt, meaning mucho laundry-o for me tomorrow.

While I did save the blankets from being dragged on the ground, whatever it was I felt I needed to prove has not been proved. The way I was oriented in the tent left me about two inches shy of being able to stretch out. My old roll-up mattress was only slightly less hard and lumpy than the ground. My joints protest on the average night, but this was an exercise in torture. Also, there was a bug.

Now, I've been camping before. The sleeping arrangements were never my favorite aspect, but I always pulled through okay. However, since the last time I went camping I somehow became middle-aged (might have something to do with all those years passing) and a middle-aged body on the ground is quite a different one than a younger body on the ground. I came in a little after 3 a.m. and haven't been able to sleep from the aching hips and shoulders. It's now 5 a.m.

Wonder how the hubs is doing out there. Probably sleeping like a damn baby.