Ah, yes! T. S. Eliot
was right: April IS the cruelest
month! And I know why – it’s tax
time! In the middle of a month that is a
veritable orgy of abundance, the Tax Man cometh.
Taxes make life very untidy.
My financial profile is disheveled, like a ballot laden with a horde of hanging
chads…and every chad is hanging in a different direction. My accounts are in
disarray, as if they were the hairballs that had just been disgorged by a
deranged cat bent on offing himself with an overdose of Ipecac.
When my investment adviser was showing me the numbers on my tax
return, it was obvious some governmental subversive gone rogue had kicked my
assets into a higher tax bracket. I was stupefied. I was wracked by jagged
breaths. I broke into a high-pitched lament, a primal whine, and began emitting
various unintelligible, wordless growls. Oh, the convulsions! Oh, the paroxysms of desperation! Oh, the tendency to hyperbolize!
Now, don’t get me wrong.
I’m no miser. I fully expect to
pay my fair share to Uncle Sam. But it was with great mandibular activity on my
wad of gum that I refrained, in the name of karmic justice, from flinging a
tantrum, conjuring a plague of pustules and imposing the likeness of Mick
Jagger’s lips on every inefficient politician responsible for tariff terrorism.
Really? The amount levied by the IRS has
the same quantity of numerical digits as my accountant’s cell number! I laid in
a sump of self pity.
What’s going on in Washington? It’s hostile territory. Has
someone who is genetically challenged and teetering on the surreal edge of
normalcy, made a Faustian deal to test the limits of human endurance…not to
mention hapless widows? I always thought
there was specific neuronal wiring that distinguished us from other
animals. After April, obviously, I was
wrong. Of course, I read somewhere that hemorrhoids have a higher favorability
rating than Congress. So, apparently, do root canals. Go figure. Hemorrhoids can be surgically removed. That explains a lot. Washington is not exactly saturated with a
population of aspiring candidates for intellectual glory. Every time certain
politicians open their mouths, they subtract from the sum total of human
knowledge. Talk about a checklist of depravity. Perhaps that explains the
current state of the Presidential election – a mind-numbing drop in this
country’s collective IQ to a single digit.
Thank goodness April is also saturated with lilacs. Lilacs are concentrated blossoms with a
singular fragrance, comprising the sublime whole. They are truly more than the sum of their
parts. There is never anything wrong with life that can’t be fixed with what is
right with lilacs.
Lilacs bloom in inhospitable geography. Lilacs are a glorious lavender…or white or a
soft blush. They leave one with a sort
of divine befuddlement…how could something so incandescently lovely, bloom in
tax season? Smelling the perfume of
lilacs is singular, like reading Psalms to ward off fear.
There’s something permanent about lilacs, although their
blooming season lasts only two weeks. It’s
amazing that a blossom so fragile can serve as anchor to the soul…like poetry
or scriptures.
I once said that lilacs have honorable subtlety. They are a symbol of the deep perfection of
life, as well as reminders of anniversaries that give one a sense of self. I
never miss an opportunity to denude some unsuspecting neighbor’s lilac bush of
its precious blooms. When life becomes
revolting and coarse (witness the messy electoral process currently assaulting
this country, laced with vitriol and vulgarisms), lilacs bring a brief
refinement, a distinct grace, a sweet respite from all that is fetid in the
political arena, or any arena, for that matter. Now, I don’t embezzle any other
flowers. I have my ethics, after all. That’s
not evidence of integrity on my part. Merely
the lack of energy to transgress with the same zeal and energy of my youth.
However, if theft of lilacs were a felony, I would plead guilty as charged. It
always gives me the most disturbing sense of satisfaction to breathe in the intoxicating
perfume of contraband lilacs. But I would not be convicted by a jury of my
peers. That’s mostly because my peers
don’t have the zeal or energy to judge.
I’d get a full pardon.
My task at present, however, is to tidy up in May the mess
that was made in April.
There is a book
called “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up,” by Marre Kondo. Apparently, the premise is: Power comes to
those whose chads are all in a row.
Ok. I’ll buy that. It’s caused me to rethink my whole life.
So I’ve decided to (metaphorically speaking) impose order on
my personal chaos, knit up my unraveled sleeve, be aglow with cleanliness,
pledge to become chipperer, and smite dead the fearsome dread of THE UNTIDY that
creates scabby growths on my mind, binds the bowels and results in emotional
constipation. I will NOT join the ranks
of the comically useless, or worse…the beguilingly incompetent, simply because
I flung a tantrum of the untidy, and caused chaos in the universe!
I will be the Attilla the Hun of ordered, analytical reason,
the Mother Theresa of the methodical, the matriarch of meditation, the
gladiator of the shipshape…structured, logical, systemized…corpulently punctilious…
I’m going to change my life.
LET’S. DO. THIS!
But…uh…where do I begin?
I think that was a rhetorical question. (Note to self: look
up “rhetorical.”)
Carpe cerebral: seize
the brain. The physical and the mental
do not have the same texture. Before
one can put the physical in order, one must put the mind in order. Actually, in
spite of being naturally platinum, I am clandestinely erudite. And, beneath the
façade of conventional behavior, I am an organization freak. I throb to the rhythm of structured logic.
If I am to tidy up any stratum of my life, I must first
start with my mind. Forget the corporeal. But before I can decide what is in
disarray within the confines of said mind, I must begin with what is in order.
Is there anything lovely in the structure of my mind that I
could place before a tribunal of tidy people that could be for the well-being
and elevation of mankind? (I always like
to begin with lofty goals. Woman is
vain, after all. Besides, what is the purpose of any intelligence, if not to
serve others, and make them succulent with inspiration? Then I will at least have the satisfaction of
having done my duty.) I refuse to be a casualty of insipid vapidness. (Note #2
to self: look up “vapidness.”)
Ah, but I digress.
Some of the order in my mind is not necessarily
symmetrical. But the following is what
has managed to emerge from the clutter and chaos of confronting the worst that
is imaginable…and possibly extracting the best.
*Being joyful is a state of mind, not circumstance.
*You’re never aware of personal strength, until being strong
is your only option.
*The prime of life can be at any time of life.
*Being hugged by a six-foot young man you once walked the
floors with when he was a colicky baby is a singular joy.
*While one can have multiple aka’s in one’s lifetime, (e.g.
mother, grandmother, widow, matriarch, etc.) one must never forget the
importance of being a woman.
*LOVE is the best medicine.
*Expecting children and grandchildren to fill every empty
space in life is unrealistic, and places unfair pressure on all parties.
*Rock ‘n Roll is still the finest music around.
*If someone is invited to grow old with someone, one would
be wise to give the matter one’s most serious consideration.
*Optics are tricky. Dawn is a matter of intuition, not
necessarily visual perception. Light can
be perceived before it is actually seen.
*It is impossible to be angry when one is laughing.
*Broken wings heal, and one can eventually resume flight.
*True friends know each other by heart.
I suppose tidiness is a matter of simple economics. Life gets messy. You go through trials. You learn from the experience. You keep
moving forward.
Ok. Bottom line: yes, life is often untidy, like an unmade
bed, and all we need to do is make crisp hospital corners.
Got it.
