Holes, Boats, Promises, Roses.

I have questions. Many questions. For example, when will I be comfortable in my misery? When will I fill the perma-hole in my heart and soul? Is there a prize for pain? Do I win if I'm most miserable? My contemporaries and I often compare notes, and I usually win. I'd prefer a blue ribbon, which is not an extravagant ask. And yet, the questions persist. Do I deserve to be happy? When does my boat, which would be named Never, come in? When will I sleep? When will my peers—oldsters—be open and honest about this shitshow that is aging? 

I have some, but not all, of the answers. I have learned that if you are promised a rose garden, it's more likely than not NOT going to happen. You will have to make if yourself. Life is not something that happens to you.  It is something you make. 

My life was one of privilege, I will be the first to acknowledge that. I still missed the mark. The true north. It took getting diagnosed with Parkinson's to let people into my life. The Apartment Gal did not just think small and feel small, she was also up-armored. No one really got in. I operated from the truism that to have someone was to lose someone. I don't think I'm alone in that default. 

It's been trying, but I've learned to regard Parkinson's as a silver living, for it has opened up a world I've always wanted—a world filled with love. Namely, the love I did not get from my parents. 

It took 78 years, countless setbacks and an irreversible diagnosis to get what I wanted most out of life: love and roses. 

It's never too late. Life is a journey, not a destination. All the cliches are true. Run towards them. 

Let your people in, plant and embrace those seeds of beauty and never say Never. Fuck that.