Age and Youth.The old year and the new year.
Dear little Angelina turned one on 1/1/11. This time last year her prospects were very different from what they are now.
She is, as her dad says, a "rock star", everyone flocking to see her, to get her attention, to smile with her, those twinkling eyes which sparkle with intelligence and humour, which melt the darkest heart.
This is my last blog of the year 2010, written on the first day of the new year, 2011.
Hello, my name is Anne Radford. Anne Kew. Anne Bouwer.
I have had three different last names, three different lives. The strange thing which happens to women living in this patriarchal world.
I come from the stock of different nations, emigrant peoples, moving from cool climates to warm, spreading out with pioneer spirit. And my own generation, my family, some of them, moving again from my own beloved warm and sunny land to become immigrants among the frozen wastes of snowy New England.
I am the proud mother of four children, my greatest creations. In the strangeness of this patriarchal system, I have two children whose last name is my first married name, and two children with the other. I am the common link, the mother of all of them, so it makes more sense that they should all rather be related to me, given a last name which is mine in some way, like Shining River, and I would be Anne Shining River, daughter of Joan Shining River.
They are more dear to me than anything else on earth, and I would happily die for them if needs be.
I have a good man for a husband, which, it would seem, is fairly rare in this day and age. I would probably die for him as well, if it was necessary, although it is our wish to die together, at the same time, if possible.
I am 55 years old, something which surprises me every day in the mirror.
Like Ulysses, I have been on a quest. I have sailed the sea of my little meadow almost every day. On it I have run over 850 km this year, a feat unimaginable before. (When my son heard this number he beamed broadly and said, "That'll do, Pig." (This is not an insult, but a reference to Farmer Hoggett's pride in the sheepherding pig Babe, in the movie of the same name. Also a rather perceptive recognition that I am not a natural at running, as a pig is not a natural sheepherder, but that I did it anyway, and succeeded admirably.)
My year's journey also involved making a little piece of art almost every day, occasionally using a photograph or an old artwork instead of something I have done that day, but every day there was some type of production, some kind of philosophy, some report on exercise.
Through all these seasons, I have tried to reflect on living in this time on earth, on all my past years, my ancestors and their influences. And also of course, on this strange present time in which we have already become slaves to technology, servants of the machine. I "rage against the dying of the light", as Dylan Thomas' poem advocates, in every way, the dying of the light of the earth, of the diversity of Life, the dying of the light of books and print which are disappearing at an alarmingly rapid rate, the dying of the light of rationality, reason, humanity, and of course, the dying of the light, the finality of death, because, against all odds, I still love life.
I have loved doing this blog, and feel a certain pride in the achievement of continuing my resolution for an entire year.
I have loved reading people's comments.
I love that it has connected me with my daughters who live so far away.
It has also happily reunited me with several of my cousins, who were an important part of my childhood and then, as adulthood moved us away to live separate lives, were lost somehow, but now they are found!
I feel sad, almost like saying goodbye at the airport, although I am not saying goodbye to running, and in fact I ran 4.60 km in the slushy snow today, wearing my spiky clever things on my sky-blue shoes, running at a rate of 7.23 minutes per km, so not bad.
I have not decided on another New Year's resolution yet, as I have several ideas and possibilities. One is to hike all 48 peaks in New Hampshire before I am 60, another to write (and draw, obviously) a graphic novel.
I have also decided to still blog occasionally, as suggested by one of my cousins, "the Brent-man" as my daughter called him.
Everything in the meadow lies flattened by the snow, but of course it is just sleeping, and will rise again in the spring. So here, for my final piece, is the snow-woman I made yesterday, rising out of the snow, beautiful, looking upward, strong, resilient, eternal.
And, just to set us down in reality, here she is today, after a warm day with temperatures in the 40's (7.5C).
And so, with that smile, I leave you.....
