Janus. The Roman god of beginnings, transitions, and endings. Often depicted as having two faces, one on either side of his head of usually flowing hair. He, giving him that pronoun because in my head I see depictions of Janus with beards on both faces, one looking to the future and the other to the past.  

That is a good enough god for me this morning!

It is my birthday. I “should” sit down and write something. I have been having trouble doing that.  Too many tasks get in the way.  Too many distracting thoughts.  I am monkey-mind personified.  

I need to gently lead that monkey away from the myriad of distractions both within and without, the list of ways that I am not living up to my ideal, plus the list of how I can fix that former list.

And return again to that bust of Janus lodged in my head that I think I saw at the Vatican Museum forty years ago. 

Forty years ago. 

Forty years ago, we celebrated my birthday in a tiny wine bar in Frascati, Italy, with a bottle of real French champagne—I think my first—while singing songs from the Gershwin song book accompanied by a young Venetian prince whose family owned a vineyard in the nearby countryside. It was cold and we walked up the hill from town to our apartment late that night. There were stars.

Looking back like Janus: Whew, this has been some year!  The search for an appropriate placement for Julia has been the incredible challenge.  Enough rejection to try even an actor’s resilient soul. I am not ready to breathe sighs of relief; however, the new placement—day 5 now, I think—continues to go well.  She came home yesterday with stories about an excursion to a museum, and exhausted enough to need a nap.

This tastes much like success.

I’d like to be able to pause on the search for “next things” which will include future housing. I could use a few months off.

And I’ve noticed more affection from Julia and a bit less anxiety.  The anxiety is ever ready to rear its head—last week at her old placement, anxiety got her suspended from that place for a week—but generally, I imagine that somewhere more appropriate, plus the work to set up her room, plus getting rid of what she does not want to use, plus a new willingness to become a more responsible roommate is calming her internal waters and pumping in some confidence.  Of course, this is the interpretation from outside her head.

More of the last year—Wilbur—this morning speaking his first version of ‘grandma’ for an early morning text—growing and learning and moving—walking now. So much joy watch him unfold like a early spring flower.  He reaches, he practices, practices constantly, and looks back for just a moment for approval. Blessed is the child who has those someones to look back to and approve enthusiastically.

He loves Richard Scarry’s Busy People book, pointing out the trucks and fire engines and diggers. Paging through this book with him, like I did with his mother who pointed out different things—more animals, less machines—I remember my dearest Carolina, who gifted Cheshire the book, who would have enjoyed adding another inquisitive little one to the brood. The connections, time and place and things, are lodged in my head today. I remember Cheshire, grammar school age, picked up Carolina’s dissertation and reading a bit and commenting on it. Sarah Grace handing David her first novel for comment. And commenting myself on Phoenix’s essay for college applications. All those connections to fill the soul.

And this year with a partner. Quite the joy for me. Very much admittedly, I have thought the less of myself for not being perfectly happy living without a partner.  I imagined it a character flaw, some lack in myself, something to be worked on and corrected. There is no fortune telling going on, I have no idea of our trajectory or duration, but I do not see my requirement of a partner for a best life as a weakness. The need has left a corner of my heart open to someone sweeping in and for that, I am grateful for this pesky-at-times want.

Looking forward: This morning, spending the morning at the library, slightly overseeing Julia’s volunteer work, I walk through and sometimes finger books in the kids and the teen sections.  I get a whiff of the time after the memoir is finished and I can turn to a new project.  I don’t really want to dive into long fiction.  I have no confidence that I can ever do anything worth reading—no need of any comment making me feel better. I have the evidence of two just really awful novels in the desk draw.  But younger fiction or a kids book beckon.  Just a maybe. 

Julia has a day of library, therapist, making art and rowing that I chaperone. Ed promised me a glass of wine at “our” wine bar tonight, and hopefully, it will be open and cozy warm.  I’m pretty happy driving Julia around as there is time to sit around and tap on the computer with minimal distraction.  And red wine on a cold day is a pretty good lure to get through the day.

I look to putting together and finishing the memoir I’ve worked on, sometimes more off than on, for a few years.  This past year, it has been hard to carve out more than the absolutely minimum of time for writing.  I promise myself more time now which feeds into my break from working on Julia’s future.

I look for more, resolution style, to get back into morning routines of meditation, art and journaling.  And working on an evening routine of reading, gratitudes and maybe music to get better sleep. Still, I need to return to the gym and walking. That may be an always. And the desire to grow in generosity and compassion, two uphill journeys. And then to remind myself to be just a little crazy!

And to a finally in the end, thank you’s and gratitudes to all those lovely friends who have sent wishes and greetings and memes and pictures from Viet Nam and a link to an orchestral playing of Happy Birthday.  

And yes, that B&W picture has a chubby faced me with terribly crooked bangs enjoying a walk through some spring cherry blossoms at Branchbrook Park in Bellville, New Jersey. Thank you, Karen, for remembering and finding and sending.