The Last Day of August

Hummingbirds greeted me this morning as I stepped outside to retrieve a grilling rack from the lawn. (If you don’t know—the easiest way to clean grill racks is to leave them on the lawn, out of the way, overnight. The dew gives them a good soak and most of the gunk just rinses away. A quick scrub and you’re done.) Five of the little guys fought among my salvia and hyssop. I don’t think I’ve ever had that many hummers in my back yard at one time before, but summer is almost over. Maybe, they’re in a hurry to store up all that good nectar. I know the feeling.

It’s been such a wonderful summer. I feel so much better and the blessing of that is more than I can say. I go to the doctor for my MPGN in about ten days. Labs, this week. I’m anxious for the results, but going by the way I feel, I’m better. Not cured, but better. I’d love a guarantee. I don’t think there is one. And when you really think about it, none of us has one anyway.

As I’ve said many times, I have so much to be grateful for. I’ve been off the prednisone for over six weeks now. Just that is so great. My puffiness is gone, I don’t bruise as easily. I have a bit more energy, though I still get tired too soon.

I had a great walk today. I’m not as sore and a neighbor on the way home joined me—a long-legged man whom usually runs. I wasn’t sure I could keep up with him and talk, but I did.

Last fall I was so full of questions about my writing. I believed I was meant to write. Everything in my life and the way I seem to be made indicates I was meant to write. It hurt that I couldn’t get more things published. I’ve doubted myself, but never as much as the last two years. I grew up believing I was a writer, but that certainty had taken a nosedive.

You know the drill, if I’m doing what I was meant to do, then why aren’t I more successful? So much time was wasted while I was sick, and more time spent as I care for my elderly mother. And this damn little ticking clock—you should be writing, you should be writing, you should be writing, won’t let me be.

An article in my paper today caught my eye—about a nineteen-year-old woman who during the last year of high school took care of her single mom, who had developed epilepsy. Then, her mother died and left her orphaned. She had to deal with the estate, her mother’s death and what she was going to do with the rest of her life.

Nineteen. She said, “You make the sacrifices you need to.” Nineteen, and she knew this already. What a great job her mother did. One of her mother’s friends said, “She stayed true to what she needs to do.” How can anyone do better than that?

Stay true to what you need to do. I think I have. I know I try. Success is so much more than getting paid to write. I’ve come to believe that life takes us where we need to go. With every stumble, setback, failure I have learned something that has affected my life and my writing. Good or bad, it had improved my writing, given it depth. I see clearer why a character might do what he does. I see situations and landscape with a different perspective.

Recession, illness, elderly parents, troubled teens, dirty dishes, lousy housing. It’s all fodder for the writing. And blessings reside there, too. So you make the sacrifices you need to make and stay true to what you need to do, who you are and your writing. See—lessons from a nineteen year old. And I’ll take them.