It is a beautiful cold calm day in Argyll, and to boot I have just unexpectedly stepped into the clear glade of the final section of an application form to the Heritage Lottery Fund. From wrestling with bogus projections of volunteer hours I suddenly fell into the pc nonsense of trying to work out the ethnicity of the audience. I clicked 'all', made myself a cup of tea, and decided to treat myself to a 10 minute blog break.
It is the only clear glade at present, and my desk reflects my job; a sea of overlapping paper bearing nice tasks and nasty tasks, but always interesting tasks, thanks to the wonder that is Dunollie.
My personal life is like my desk, and just as we are running towards major changes at Dunollie next year, so I too have suddenly stumbled into a new phase of life. It is not as if I didn't see it coming (hell, a year at university was enough of a wake-up call), but it is now truly here. My youngest leaves home in 6 weeks, and is doing it big time, with a 9 hour flight between us. At the same time the next generation is starting to need support. It is the age-old pattern, and biologically it works with great synchronicity. Barring disasters, our span is timed to allow for the very long dependency of our offspring (us and orang utan both) coming to a close just as the older generation really start to get older.
I sit squarely in the middle of the young and the old, and at times barely recognise myself and the place I now inhabit. It never occurred to me before that we live our lives in blocks. In times past we would have hit the ground running with childbirth at a much younger age, and on that basis it evens out in about 20 year chunks: childhood and adolescence / parenthood / solitariness (in a couple or alone) and caring for the elderly / becoming the older generation. That makes 3 score years and 20, which is a fair enough bet these days.
The neatness of that equation, however, bears no relation to the chaos of actually doing the deed of being in stage 3 of the 4 blocks. It also does not describe the change of temperament which is partly the onset (earlier in some than others) of grumpy-old-man/woman-itis, and also a new determination not to compromise. It is a strange new land, after 20 years of compromising for our children, but the the leafy glade that is 'hang on a minute, what about me' is rather a refreshing place.
This is a stage in life which used to be called 'the prime'. Barely anyone uses this term anymore, but suddenly I recognise it fully, and know myself to be in it. 'A woman in her prime', as described in a Thackeray-type novel always seems to stand tall, and straight; be strong, capable, and forthright; and of course be 'still handsome for her years'. I don't claim to have the full package, or even much of it, but I am loving being a woman in her prime.
The overlapping orbits are the chaotic desks, relationships, and schedules that swirl about my ankles (as I stand straight and handsome and forthright - note I left out tall). Many of the players are also in their respective primes, and that is both fun and complicated; so much change, so many visions to the past and the future. We gaze wistfully at the thinner younger version of ourselves, while fretting about the age to come, and continuing to make some fabulously dodgy decisions.
I have decided not to regret the past or the future, and of course to try and curb the bad decisions (that is the one continuing longterm goal). Enjoyment of 'prime' is where I want to be. I feel the need to celebrate the moment with something permanent...I was thinking of a little tattoo. Or would that be a woman in her prime behaving badly?
