The Absolute Truth About the Absence of Youth

That was the title of the book I was going to co-write with a few friends a few years back. We thought of all sorts of places we could go with it. For example, the whole idea of having an absolute truth in the first place is absurd. In truth, we all have our own versions of the truths. In truth, truth is subjective. Come to think of it, since our truths are so individual, how could any truth ever be an absolute one in the first place! Sure I could have my own absolute truths, and you could have yours. But how could I ever think to impose mine over the top of yours? And then have the unmitigated gall to write a book about it? Absurd, indeed!

But then, haven’t we all been subjected to other people’s truths throughout history? The earth is flat. And the sun revolves around it. Blood-letting is the cure for all major diseases. A woman’s place in the home.

I could go on. But that’s not what I really want to talk about here.

Aside from playing around with the words themselves, I remember going in a completely different direction with it. For me, the absence of youth meant my rapidly approaching “empty nest” status. Yep, my baby will soon be off to college which will leave my home void of its youth. It’s bound to be pretty absolute in the stillness his absence will leave and I can only wonder what kinds of truths it will to reveal.

But that’s not what I want to talk about either. 

I want to talk about my sister’s recent visit. Yvonne and I live a few thousand miles apart and don’t get to see each other very often. So her visit lent itself to all sorts of great conversational opportunities. She and I are both . . .  well . . . let’s just say our own youths are a distant past. I guess you could say they’re absent. Oh sure, we collectively hold the feminine wisdom of many (many) decades—wisdom neither of us would trade for youth any old day. But still . . . Why the heck do things have to go so far south!? I’m reminded of a certain poem I wrote a while ago, one that has yet to be published so copy-write laws do apply:

Deflated

Straight forward

they’d stare ~ no matter what I’d wear.

even occasions

I’d let them go bare!

Happy twins bouncing

in harmony, poised

in precise symmetry,

enhancing the verticals that

once were me.

But alas, age and

motherhood defied the whole

topography.

Realigned their

perfect visibility ‘till the ground

is all the old girls see.

Oh sure, I know about

gravity, and laws of relativity.

But how sad to know

they apply to me.

It’s said that life

can be unfair; a view

no doubt I easily share with

other moms like me.

As we age in deflated

disrepair. 

But no matter that

my perky pair -

condemned to depreciate

with each

passing year.

My spouse and I,

sometimes compare

other things lost

(like his hair).

  

I guess old mother nature

can be equally unfair.

Anyway, back to my sister and I. We decided that we’d start working toward a couple things: first would be the overall reduction in the size of our “wisdom containers.” We decided to weigh in on certain days and keep each other honest by sharing the results of said measurements via e-mail. We also decided to improve the overall health and texture of our containers by increasing our exercise and eating better—which will be a stretch since we both already enjoy some form of exercise at least five days a week. And neither of us eat very terribly . . . we both abstain from fast food, from junk food, from fatty food. But boy, do we like our deserts! And how we enjoy that glass of wine (or two) with dinner. And then there’s me with my love for an occasional (that’s a completely subjective word, you know) cosmopolitan.

So there you go  . . . our plan to ward off the absence of youth. Or at least go “gently into its goodnight.”

And so far, so good! In the past couple of weeks we’ve lost a combined total of eight pounds and our clothes are fitting a tad better since we’re changing the texture of our containers. We are watching our portions more closely and so we feel better after each meal (I have this thing where my nose stops up when I get full. I call it my shut off valve, something I’ve tended to ignore in recent past. But last night I realized that my shut off valve hasn’t been employed in a while – yet another measurement of success!) And then this morning, I saw it! Something I haven’t seen in a very long time.

My hip bone! 

I hope to resurrect the other one soon. Wish me luck!

Poetry in Motion

When I was young I used to write poetry. Sometimes silly, sometimes serious, always rhyming, and usually about life or love or tormented emotions. I still have the originals somewhere, stuffed into a three ring binder. I'd even given copies to my little sister once years and years and years ago. Back when I was dirt poor. It was a year when I couldn't afford to buy Christmas gifts so I'd made them all. To Lilly, I'd given the gift of poetry. Little did I know that all that bad, horrible writing would come back to haunt me one day!

My mother had been gone for about a year when a bunch of us siblings got together for a shindig in Reno, NV. It was then that my baby sister (now forty four), presented me with her own gift of poetry. She'd taken all my old poems and had them professionally bound. There was a dedication page signed by my two sisters, my daughter, and posthumously by my mother (Lilly had lifted her signature off of a greeting card that she'd also saved). And one of the poems was even illustrated by my daughter, the artist. So there were all my sappy, rhyming love poems, bound beautifully into twelve hardback copies. What could I do but thank her for them. In fact, I think I even cried. But had I cried for the thoughtfulness of the gift or the fact that all that wonderful giving had been spent on such crappy poetry? In truth I think it was a little of both.

I still dabble in poetry from time to time but it's very different than the flowery, Hallmark stuff I'd written as a teen. Again, I save them all, stored away for some big, future event that probably will never happen. But now the repository is my computer instead of a binder. Some are finished, others are in a folder I simply call, Poetry in Motion. These are the ones I come back to and tweak off and on. Eventually, I might edit one enough for it to feel complete, or at least as close to complete as I think it'll ever get. Then I'll move it into another folder called Poetry. But the contents of that folder is light years away from what can be found in my three ring binder. An example of my more recent musings:

God’s Gifts

Coaxing
mold into a
petri-dish
He cultured up
Pasteur.

Crunched some
numbers to the sum
of Pythagoras.

Scribbled out
the first and
original
Picasso.

Pondered up
Plato and Socrates.

Ignored Aristotle.

Then,
throwing in a
monkey wrench
God created
Darwin.

He must have
laughed thinking
“this should keep
them busy
for a while.”

© 2009, Linda Leschak, all rights reserved