My 47th April

I've really failed at this daily journaling thing. And in some ways, I've failed at many other things. I keep swimming a the surface, but recently I've starting to dive. A little deeper each time. And I feel like I've failed myself with the past two decades.

Resuscitating a blog that was full of hopes and angst and doings from my twenties will do that. I was already nostalgic in my teens. Growing up in a house seeded with post-war post-refugee trauma will do that. My parents constantly reminded me our our journey, from a broken country to our new home, at least a few times every day. Stories of sacrifices, loss, fear wrapped around my developing sense of identity for years. But also stories of a wondrous past, a lost pastoral childhood, also settled, like scattered petals, deep in my subconscious. I've always longed for a better place somewhere in the past.

I am home alone for the first time in decades. Candice and Madeleine are in New York for spring break; this time, I insisted they go without me. "Traveling isn't fun more me, anymore," I spat out to Candice on one of our walks. "Taking care of you both is exhausting. I need time to myself."

It's true. I'm tried of the husbandry. My days are interrupted by pick up and drop offs for school and lessons. They're interrupted by trips to the grocer, by dinner preparation, by scheduling appointments and meeting with doctors and vets and contractors and so on.

Then I look back on the passed years and see that I have a stalled career, a daughter who is growing resentful, and words that come harder and harder.

I stood for a few minutes against a mirror set on the back fence of the garden yesterday and looked at myself. I saw a man with a sallow, lined face, thin hairline and a protruding belly.

I wasn't happy in my twenties, but I was creative. And I felt like I was jumping into the world.

I had no one to call to hang out this weekend. I walked the dog, watched three Bond movies and loped around the silent house.

I stand in the garden and smoked.

I wanted to write a prayer of thanks today, standing in the garden this morning. The rains had stop and the roses looked beautiful, glistening with droplets of reflected sky. "I thank god for this most beautiful day". Those words came so easily once.

I think of acquaintances on my old blog who have forged their own paths and I get jealous that they have found their true selves. Tuan, who is about to publish his second book. Christine, who is a famed chef. We started from similar places. And I have made all the decisions that have gotten me to this empty space.

I think I can still turn and change. Slowly. I am thankful for all the things that I have, but not thankful for them in the same breath. A loving wife. A smart kid. A home. But they all feel a little empty. I miss them, across the country. But I also don't miss them, because I miss my old self more.

I don't want to look back in my fifties and feel this way.