This is where I am at this moment

Until recently, it had been almost 12 months since I’d picked up a keyboard and wrote a column. What a phenomenal detour once again from the road I was meant to take all my life.
Occasionally over the past few months, readers would ask me if I had stopped writing because I wasn’t happy.
I don’t deny those people their assumption because I have alluded to that very roadblock in past columns. This time, though, I know for sure that my happy meter was not the issue.
In all honesty, I stopped writing my column because I didn’t think I had anything new to say.
And even now, I’m not sure I do have anything new to say. But I know for sure I need to get back to the page of saying just that and/or something else.
I still have debts, two jobs, troublesome pets, squirrel frenzy, and six medium-sized peppers who are awesome kite flyers and “Earth Day” volunteers. I could exercise a lot more but still have my good health, and a good man.
Yes, I have a good, good man–a forever companion-partner in my life. But that’s a story for another story.
Yet who am I really? Get in line, I say. Even at 57 years of age, I’m not sure I know who I am–and believe it or not, I think that’s the most exciting revelation ever.
I’m never going to be the one who says she is stuck in her ways. No, not me.
“Mornings are still my table.” I get up before sunrise, write in my diary, and read my daily books, including my new epiphany symphony, “A Return to Love” by Marianne Williamson (which is not about the kind of love you might think) and “The Wisdom of Sundays” by Oprah Winfrey.
Both books are thought propulsions for my earth school learning curve.
My hair is going grey so fast I can’t fathom it. In the morning, my joints are stiff and sometimes I stand at the wall to put my socks on.
My “Buddha,” bless her soft and unforgiving shape, continues to plague my profile in my best pair of jeans, and I’m trying very hard to love her whilst I suck her in and wedge her into place.
I have the unkindness of arthritis in my hands and an especially unpredictable right ring finger that gets stuck crunched up sometimes when I make a fist, and I grimace and new face wrinkles are laid down.
I have two emerging brown circles on my face that I think my late grandmother would have said were “age spots.” I’m not ready for those, either.
Where did the time go? What happened since yesterday–1971–when, at age 11, a school class photo was taken at Robert Moore School with my unplucked eyebrows?
Life keeps going forward, that’s what–good, bad, new, and not so new, and thankfully I’m still here.
I’ve come a long way already and there’s still a half-century on the horizon, right?!
Eyes ahead.