The Meaning of Gold

Well…this is it. Five days left for me in California and needless to say the packing up, the trashing, the shredding, the giving away of possessions that I would have preferred to keep but couldn’t because of lack of space in my daughter’s apartment, has been both a nightmare and mournful passage.

I’m not big on things. I don’t own a theatre-size plasma TV or wall-to-wall designer furniture. Lovely as they are, they are luxuries, pretty possessions that merely take up space and I know will be harder to pack the next time around. A time for me which is now and a time which does seems to be cropping up more and more these days.

Which was okay when I was younger. I certainly had more stamina back then and the aches and pains would eventually fade away after a few hours. Now…they just stay.

It’s all good though because I’ve pretty much whittled this whole uprooting thing down to a science. I’m an efficient machine my mother can’t understand how I do what I do.
How I so easily pick myself up and just go. I let her think what she wants because I couldn’t bear her worrying about me. At 86 with an already failing memory, one that can’t sustain any real conversation of thought, sadly I say very little these days.

Not once have I surrendered to her how tough it really is. Transplanting one self goes far beyond the physical exertion. It bottoms down to a home is more than just four walls. It’s what you fill each of those rooms with. The gaps of spaces that comprise a life. The people you choose to bring in. For me it were those tiny nuggets of gold, the handful of women I somehow fortunately found—or should I say they found me—who enriched my day-to-day world with shoulders of steel, with laughs, with tears, and with lots of beers and martinis that might otherwise have been a humdrum of meaningless hours strung together and often times walked alone.

I cannot say how differently this chapter of my life would have turned out if I hadn’t meet them. But as I once again turn the page I’m realizing something I’ve thought about a lot these days: that over time and distance there are some things in life you can easily adjust yourself to and eventually learn to live with. Then there are other things, you never will.

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Where Was I Ten Years Ago?

In celebration of BlogHer’s 10th anniversary they posed to their viewers the following question: Where Were You 10 Years Ago? And here’s my answer:

I-Was-Aimless-Without-A

Ten years ago I had just turned 50. I was working at another crappy job, had been divorced for quite awhile with no prospects on the horizon, cancelled my subscription to Match.com and my children were both out of the house and apparently didn’t need me anymore. Well, not the way they used to.

It was horrible time. I felt sorry for myself. I felt frightened that life was passing me by and had nothing of real substance to show for it. You know…the usual stuff one tends to think about when staring down their own mortality with both eyes wide open.

So a friend suggested I start a blog. “Cathartic” was the word she used and I figured maybe she was right. Maybe I did need an outlet. I had after all kept a journal for many years. But that was private and this was very much not. The idea of exposing myself to the entire world definitely made me pause and rightfully so. But I soon got over it and whatever my intentions were when I started, quickly turned to disaster. The posts were nothing but a mishmash of things, a boring mishmash I might add that only your best friends and mother would bother to read. It was obvious that I lacked confidence, lacked a voice and had not a bloody clue what the hell I was doing.

And that was the end of that! No more blogging for me. If I wanted to resurrect this tired, old spirit, I would simply have to find another way.

Fast forward to the here and now, the highly evolved sixty-something generation where I have plenty to say and to a thriving circle of friends. Old friends, new friends, empowered women who continue to inspire me on a daily basis. Yes, I’m blogging again. Yes, I’m Facebooking, I’m tweeting. I’m also packing up my apartment to be near my daughter who’s due to give birth, in between working on that first novel.

I don’t worry anymore about if my life has or has not made a dent in the great world beyond. Who the heck has time? I simply look around at what’s right here in front of me, at the mere stretch of my fingertips…and know.

L. Donsky-Levine, writer and proud owner of a voice

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It is what it is…what it is

Hitting twenty, I realized it was time to put away my toys.
Hitting thirty, I had to come to terms with the fact that I was now an adult with someone calling me “Mommy.”
Hitting forty, I found myself competing against those in their twenties for every available male in my category and didn’t like it one bit.
Hitting fifty, I began to care less.
Hitting sixty, I stopped caring altogether figuring if I made it this far who gives a shit.

©2014 by L. Donsky-Levine. All rights reserved.

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D-Day — JUNE 6, 1944

Standing on the sideline of life while others fight in my stead, does not entitle me to preach to anyone how they should or shouldn’t feel about anything, the pulpit already is a bit too crowded in my opinion. So I will just offer my own thoughts on this particular day with the image of Normandy still clear in my mind as if it were yesterday that I walked its beaches.
normandy

160,000 Allied troops landed on that Tuesday, on that 50-mile stretch of French coastline, seventy years ago today. As did 5,000 ships and 13,000 pieces of aircraft leaving 9,000 of our soldiers killed or wounded during this invasion. Staggering numbers? Oh yes.

War is gruesome. There are never winners. Just sacrifices and causes. Some even worth dying for.
normandy-beach

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