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Who Is This Woman?  By  W. Bruce Watson
 
I have a sister in law, Gracie, who visits regularly but briefly, and always in a rush. Diminutive in stature though she may be, she and her life are profuse with works in progress, and her life and her home are filled with their detritus. Her magpie mind is a maze of cross-connections of both inter related and dissimilar images, perceptions, pertinent facts, notions and remembrances. She is a skilled cook, and her fondness for cooking and her experiences therein are all interwoven with all of it.

She may, seemingly on a whim, decide to cook lamb shanks in a Persian manner. But such occurrences are never impulsive acts, but more the result of some inarticulable plan. The resultant, superb dinner is apt to be lifted to a table, that while not littered exactly, is covered just the same with stacks of opened journals, Xeroxes of interesting and important information, clutches of 3X5 cards, all scribbled upon, bowls of blackened bananas, unopened mail, clothes folded and waiting in vain to be put away, utensils and serving dishes likewise waiting in vain to be put away in spaces already filled to capacity.

She phoned yesterday, from Sheshelt on the Canadian Sunshine Coast, where she is visiting, on vacation, from a meat market, on her cell phone, to inquire about the ingredients in a particular lamb recipe from a particular cook book of Maria’s, one that she’d been reading one day on her way through to Canada. Maria found the cookbook, still lying on the dining room table where Gracie had left it, a scribly 3X5 card inserted between the pages where the sought after recipe was to be found. This was not the first such call that we have ever received from her. Later, looking over at the bookshelves which house Maria's collection of cookbooks, I noticed the many such cards jutting up like sentinels from between their pages. My mind recoiled, my thoughts ricocheted off the inescapable conclusion as it percolated down into my consciousness, leaving me awe stricken and wondering once again, "Who, just exactly, is this woman?"
 
 
 
The truth is, after much furrowing of brow, I can't think of anything to say by way of preface to my blog. Along the way I wondered what it's purpose might be and maybe I should say a few words about that and would, except that I don't know what its purpose is, or could be, or should be. I only know that my clock is winding down and I'm so desperate to have my mind known that I could just spit! Maybe my blog could be about that. But how depressing and pretentious that could be! But hold on a second, maybe not—my therapist commented the other day how in late adulthood (AKA elder years), one is forced to deal with the sense of loss, all the time, it's always there, and it's painful, it takes great faith to live on even though one knows it's going to end and that whatever they accomplish, if anything, is not going to matter all that much. How does one find meaning or a sense of fulfillment in life knowing that it’s coming to an end? Psychologists have not written much about this if anything. It's sort of an unexamined part of adult life. It takes a lot of self-discipline to function in spite of this sense of loss—it's so easy to give up on the constant struggle, on life. A lot of people do—drinking, TV, drugs, electrosex, So, if you'll bear with me, let us examine this unexamined part of adult life.
 
 
 
 
Copyright © 2011 W. Bruce Watson, Inc. All rights reserved.  
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