Still "fertile" after all these years

Unlike those women in 70s and 80s TV dramas who were crushed when they learned they were entering their crone years, I’m growing impatient to get there. My daughter says it’s taking awhile because I’m ridiculously fertile and Nature won’t let go of such a prize, but you know, I have the front yard and the garden areas and things grow like mad even when I don’t wish them to; this being the yang side of a green thumb, still, now and then when it’s been a few weeks I grow hopeful, only to realize it’s been about two weeks since I started contemplating how cyborgs share physical intimacy, and then I got a pimple, and this morning I spent half an hour lining up my sewing things with great precision, and this afternoon I baked six dozen chocolate chip cookies, and now I have cramps. Screen Shot 2016-08-15 at 12.29.50 PM
But I have a mild, completely illogical fear about it all, and I’ve been wondering if there is any possible way to psychologically prevent yourself from getting to menopause. I remember reading a girl will usually continue growing in height for two years after her cycle begins, and that’s how it was for me, and then you see, my mother got sick and then died two years after reaching menopause, and somehow it seems rather like a parallel; end of physical growth to end of new life growth. Darktubbies
On the other hand, it’s now been a little over forty years since I started having these cycles, and I’ve had perimenopause symptoms for nearly seven, so I am still quite ready to let it all go, even if some odd internal segment of my brain fears what might come next. 6a013486cbda64970c014e5f6ab7ef970c-800wi


Overlapping Seasons

It is November 1. Leaves have finally begun to change color on the trees, and to settle on the still-bright green lawn. And that still-green lawn now has wild strawberries growing in it. 20161101_170551
The tomato plants have sprung back to life, the nasturtiums continue to bloom, the cosmos to replicate themselves.
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Cold will come in time, and with it, a personal mourning for light and life and bright healing air.

Out of time, as it seems we are, the seasons are overlapping, and creating a certain degree of poetic confusion. 20161101_170623

Writing what you actually see when you look through to the bottom of a lake, that requires the sun high overhead, Jupiter and Mars in the nighttime sky, toes in warm mud after a heavy afternoon rain shower, the scent of meat searing over a charcoal fire. In summer, I paint on a living canvas instead of fabric and wood fashioned to my easel.

Writing it all down at the end of the growing year, when darkness rises in late afternoon and the sky feels a little too close for comfort, the project turns artificial, grasping for a reality which can’t exist in the greys and browns of November. The conceit of spending that month creating something new could only have been thought of by a someone in Southern California, where they do not witness first hand the vacuum in nature between the bright harvest colors of October and the sparkling decor of December; it’s something they see conjured on a movie or TV set. But they who say tell us that Nature abhors a vacuum, and making up a wild and fantastic story might be one way to fill it in for anyone who feels the misery of Winter’s emergence.

Summer beautifies reality. Winter fosters fantasy. Understanding this, I adjust my focus for each season in turn, and make what I can of it.

How to adjust focus when the seasons are blurred together like this? That's something for greater philosophers than I.
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