Recently a good friend and I have exchanged several recent letters that have gone off on a somewhat strange and unexpected tangent that has us fantasizing about what our lives should be like when we are older. My addition to the fantasy is living life as a liberated old lady, living in a little cob house in the rainforest by a secluded beach. Nearby, you can walk on a boardwalk through the rainforest to a hot spring by the ocean, where you can relax your life's cares away in the soothing waters of one of Nature's cathedrals.
Evenings would be spent knitting by the fire, with nothing but the sound of the distant crashing waves and the wind in the trees as the background music. Days would be spent gardening, and going for long walks on the beach, throwing sticks into the surf for my dog until his tongue lolls out the side of his mouth in happy exhaustion. Then we would head home, and he would flop himself down to gently steam by the fire (filling the house with the not-necessarily-unpleasant funk of happy wet dog), while I would make myself a cup of tea and sit at the little table by one of the beach facing windows, stroking the cat on my lap, with my binoculars near at hand so I can watch the seagulls, the cormorants, and the occasional seal popping its head up beyond the surf line. In the winters storms would rage their fury, but I would be safe and warm in my little house, looking out at the huge waves crashing onto the islets off of the beach, all the while marvelling at how insignificant I was relative to the forces of nature that surround us. My house would be filled with books and warmth and the lovely scent of hewn west coast cedar, and I would never be bored or lonely (even when I was alone).
And so the passage of my days would go, one blending into the other, as I went forward into peaceful and graceful old age, utterly content with life.
I have been thinking about this all day, and the whole thing just makes me happy.
Those of you who know the true identity of Absinthe, know that she is describing the place where she grew up. How wrenchingly far she has come from those roots. And (by and large) how unhappy that journey has been. And all because of her choice of career. That old lady who will be me will not regret her life's choices, because the sum of her past experiences are, after all, what makes her her. But if she could reach back to me now, she would be giving me a little hug, and a little squeeze on the arm, and she would be whispering in my ear "come...come to me now...start your journey".
Oh, indeed to begin that journey.
