A hint of movement at the station

Early days yet, but there is some movement. Essentially nugatory, I think. But interesting. I gather I am not the only one to find this a difficult process. I also gather that there is some surprise that I have not rolled over and exposed my stomach in surrender. 


We have had our concert, which went well. I sang in the main work and then went off home, to nurse my poor sore head. All the things extraneous to a good and satisfying life sprang up and smote me again on Sunday and the migraine returned worse than ever. I crept around and it seems to be seeping out and away. My daughter helped me sort out some of the paperwork, and reminded me that all this stress is self-induced, as I am taking the action into the enemy camp. This is perfectly true, so I repeat it to myself constantly. If only my heart would stop thumping so violently.


Choir is back, not that it ever wasn't, and we are now gearing up for our performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony in a couple of weeks. This is hard work for sopranos as it is very high, and vocally stressful. But I think I can manage it.


My Italian argomento yesterday went well. And today's as well. Then at the Art Gallery I ran into various people and had some good chats. There are some women who catch the same bus, so that over the years we have struck up conversations and some degree of friendship. I talked to one of them while we munched on our sandwiches, and she told me her very old mother had died a fortnight ago, and we shared the grief, and, I hope, some consolation and understanding. Another friend, with whom I travelled to Italy a couple of years ago, is having to cope with her husband's failing health and need for extra care. There are many of us at this same stage of life. Then by chance I ran into a woman I met a couple of weeks ago, at a dinner, when we found we knew many people in common, so we intend to get together soon. They turned out to be best friends with best friends of one of my sisters. Such accidental encounters are both satisfying and fascinating.


They make me wonder what it would be like to re-locate and start all over again. Not easy, I think. Unlike most of my family, who have stayed put, and have had the stability of the same environment and circles of family and friends, I have moved a couple of times, and have not found the process easy, or quick. To have to do so again would be daunting. I like being able to wander around the local shops and to know those who work there, the pharmacist, the bookseller, those who sell me the spinach and fetta triangles, the coffee shop, the stall-holders at the local markets, the neighbours, my classmates. I like the choir, the lectures, the classes, my physiotherapists, the medical practice and all the other friends I have made. The network is my own, now.


Yet one cannot see around the corners. Are there joys and pleasures there, or nasty frights?


There are times when I think that at my age, I should not have to grow up any more.


Yesterday it was seven months since Dr P died, and the wounds are still open and painful.