Every year in December I play John Lennon’s CD.
I insert the CD into my car’s stereo system and drive to the gym.
The words to the song Happy Christmas (War Is Over) make me cry.
I feel as if John Lennon is talking to me.
The tears well up around my eyes and a cocktail of uncertainty about the new year wells up in me, too.
Insecurities–am I confident enough? worthy enough?–seep through me, traveling in my veins.
Soon, black mascara is smeared all over my glasses.
I’m a mess when I reach my gym.
“Why play the song? ” you ask.
“Because I like to go through mild misery before getting to the gym.”
The first verse and chorus of the song go like this:
So this is Christmas
And what have you done
Another year over
And a new one just begun . . .
A very Merry Christmas
And a Happy New Year
Let’s hope it’s a good one
With out any fear
The title of the song ought to be:
What Have You Done.
As I sit in my car I IMAGINE
What if he was talking to me face to face having coffee? Haha.
A Beatles member talking to me . . . work with me here . . .
This is how it would go.
JOHN: AND SO THIS IS CHRISTMAS
Lola: Yes, John. I’m well aware that this is Christmas. There is stress all around me as people shop for for food and wine and mindlessly pick up gifts to give. Some will spend Christmas Eve with a small group of friends or, like me, they will have 15 relatives come over for Christmas Eve, for honey baked ham and egg rolls.
JOHN: AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?
Lola: Gosh . . . let’s see . . . [sigh] . . . such a loaded question. Let me tell you what I have NOT DONE. Not a whole lot. Nothing over the top that will get me inside the castle to have noon tea with the Queen of England. I won’t get to ask if she texts her grandkids.
Sadly, I have not done any acting to be considered a contender for this year’s Oscars. People Magazine didn’t include me on their list of 25 most intriguing people. I’m not intriguing enough, I guess.
My best seller is in its gestation stage. I didn’t find a cure for Parkinson’s disease.
However, this is what I HAVE DONE.
In April, my husband and I began walking/ hiking 20-25 miles a week.
It was our way of getting to know each other all over again since our grown boys have moved on to start their careers.
At first we started out with short walks, then they got longer and longer. Our steps at times are in sync; other times he leads and I walk behind. Something like a marriage.
There are quiet moments and that’s OK. I know he is not tuning me out. We are both thinking and dreaming. Then, I recall something funny and giggle.
“What’s so funny?” he asks.
The sound of the pebbles under our feet when walking on the beach or going through the woods have become meditative. Our long walks have become something we have started to look forward to.
By the end of summer, I realized it was God’s way of telling us this empty nest is not so bad. Give this new space a chance. Breathe.
There’s no reason for us to uncouple just because certain famous people are doing it.
In July, I started writing again and like everyone else, I got my own blog. I prayed about it; then took the leap.
And one lesson I learned this year is to close your eyes, hug all your fears, and JUMP!
The net will appear.
If what you are doing feels right God will let you know. If not, he will slowly close the screen door.
Bloggers have viewed my site. This is a good sign.
In September, I joined a Bible Study Fellowship. Instead of laying in my bed watching the sky turn to dusk, I decided to take the leap and join a class.
And I feel I’m in the right place. Being with a group of ladies who share the same faith has sparked an interest in becoming more involved–I’m considering becoming a welcome committee director.
In November, I traveled to Manila to visit someone more special than the Queen. I went to visit Napoleon.
I taught him how to “high- five.”
For sure, that was more enjoyable than having tea with the Queen.
My humanitarian efforts this year include driving my 90-year-old Aunt Lucy every Monday get her dentures fixed and to buy a week’s worth of food at Safeway. This takes five hours.
I also care for my aging mother every Wednesday.
. . . to be continued . . .