My garden is full of milkweed, and has been for several years. I’ve only seen a monarch caterpillar in the yard once in all that time. But this morning, dangling from a blade of miscanthus grass, I noticed a small, perfect green chrysalis, with a glittery necklace of gold around its neck.
I thought the monarchs were gone already, but it turns out this is a special kind of monarch. According to the all-seeing, all-knowing Google, the ones that appear in late August and early September are a special crop – they’re the ones that live long enough after they emerge from their cocoons to migrate south.
Monarch butterflies are a symbol of my late husband to me. The first poem he ever recited to me was a Robert Duncan poem that begins, “Sail, Monarchs…” (the text of which was remarkably difficult to find in a basic online search). But Duncan’s poem refers to spring Monarchs, calling them “messengers of March…”
I didn’t know about September monarchs until I saw that cocoon this morning and Googled it. Now I get to watch a new Monarch emerge (as long as it doesn’t get eaten by something), and sail away south for the winter.
The emergence of something new and unexpected should give me a sense of renewal, hope, starting over, beginning again. I’m trying, but right now I’m kind of stuck on the “don’t get eaten by something” part.
In the past week or two I’ve been fending off panic attacks about getting older. I wasn’t afraid of it before, I guess because I thought I could do it without much fuss, and without much physical or intellectual decline.
I’m not so sure anymore. I’m now in my 4th week of physical therapy for an arthritic knee that gets better and then suddenly, and without warning, “goes out,” very painfully, putting me back in a drugstore “knee stabilizer.” I’m going up and down stairs using only my “good” leg. That “good” leg was a “bad” leg (knee) three years ago, and is showing signs of distress at being asked to carry more than its share of the load.
I notice myself mixing up words a little. I know this happens as we age, but it’s not supposed to happen to ME. Words are my thing. Yet in recent weeks I’ve said “fridge” when I meant “dishwasher” and stuff like that. I’ve had to revise this post umpteen times to fill in missing words or delete extra ones.
Holy shit. I am not ready for this kind of decrepitude. I have no plan for what happens to me when I can’t drive anymore, or go up and down stairs, or when, God forbid, I truly lose my mind.
I know I’ve written about this ad nauseam, but my focus on it has intensified these days: I can’t fall apart until Angelic Daughter is settled and provided for, in a supported independent living situation. I need that to happen before I disappear into the fog of old age.
And I don’t want to fall apart and disappear. I want to travel, go to classical music concerts on Sunday afternoons, and read everything I should have read by now. I have no intention of going gentle into that good night.
Hence, panic attacks. Waking up at 2 a.m. and freaking out about needing more help than I’ve got. Calming myself down, going back to sleep, only to wind myself up again when I get up in the morning.
Maybe it’s the caffeine. Back to decaf for me.
And back to hope and renewal. It’s fall excursion season again, and this year’s Fall Excursion One, apple picking, is in the bag. My knee only “went out” once, and although the MacIntosh apples I hoped to pick were very sparse due to drought, we found enough of those plus some Galas to fill our two little quarter-peck bags. When we got home I made apple chips for the first time, and they were delicious.
I always feel refreshed and renewed in the fall, my favorite time of year. Part of my “fall renewal” this year has been to let go of things that aren’t working for me. Some of those things are things I’m supposed to do to build and maintain the support system I obviously need, like singing in a choir and running a MeetUp group. Not a day goes by where I don’t see an article about how important social connections are to your long-term health.
But a support system composed of people with whom I don’t have much in common doesn’t do any of us much good. I’m terrible at disguising disinterest, impatience or boredom, and I don’t want to ruin other people’s fun by making it obvious that I’d rather be somewhere else, with someone else, especially when “someone else” doesn’t really exist for me. So I think it’s better for all concerned if I just sink into the background until I can figure out what to do when self-sufficiency isn’t, well, sufficient anymore.
Hoping to hold together physically and intellectually for many more years, I remain,
your panicky, limping, trying to smile through the pain and panic,
Ridiculouswoman
I hope that Autumn rituals will help you feel more like yourself quickly. We’re all on your side.
I can relate 🥹 i struggle too. Being a human is really really hard. Quakers have a saying : “Way will open”. I choose to believe it even when it doesnt feel possible.
Another seasonal display of monarchs and apples leading to another winter and on we go, accumulating cycles and years, all of of us doing the best we can with what we have for as long as we can. I appreciate the realties of our human struggles while endeavoring to also appreciate the smallest gifts of the world. I remember the first time someone cut open an apple around it’s circumference to show me the star pattern of seeds within. Wonder. Worth it all, I wish that for you as well.