* not with ink

At my current church, there is an adorable old man named George. There's something about old-man Georges that get to me. (It's probably not hard for you all to figure it out.)  This George is even older than my Grampie. And on top of being a centarian, he is also a poet. In fact, when I initially expressed interest in his poetry, he brought me three of his four volumes the following week (he couldn't find any copies of Volume 1). A few weeks ago, during coffee hour (after the early service, 8 or 10 of us sit around and eat a breakfast of cookies and coffee), we got to discussing the weather, and this slow movement towards spring. One of my friends/colleagues there is a Maritimer, and she is particularly fond of the winter season. I am not so inclined. She was lamenting the ugliness of this liminal season before spring, and the inevitability of wet feet and dirty half-snow everywhere. "I look forward to the slush!" George piped up. And we all laughed. ...

It's Monday morning  afternoon, and I have exactly 4 homework assignments that need to be done today, and I have finished precisely 0 of them (though I have started 3). So obviously, it is time for me to process some thoughts via this blog...  I've been thinking this week about aging. Actually, I've been thinking about it all month, maybe longer. Something in me feels like getting married has flipped a switch, setting an unstoppable train into motion. Growing old seems inevitable now. Children may or may not happen, careers will shift, retirement is something to consider, and someday I'll be the one using a cane to get up, shuffling through the doors of a church, trying to understand a rapidly changing and unfamiliar world. I know it is isn't marriage that started this; the train has been in motion since my birth. But I felt a little ageless when I was flying solo, as if my unmarriedness was holding time back, because the only person on my to-care-for r...