Word Furrows from Lily
trinket
gasket
halcyon
greenhorn
inert
applicant

Halycon is a word I often look up. Why must I be such a greenhorn at my own native tongue? I can look this word up every year, and the year thereafter, provide you with an entirely new definition. Halcyon is about misspent youth, right? It’s kind of a piney thing, n’est-ce pas? No, wait, it’s a bucolic time right, a pastoral? A penitente?

Halcyon, once and for all, according to wordweb:

Noun. Halcyon. Halseeun

1. A mythical bird said to breed at the time of the winter solstice in a nest floating on the sea and to have the power of calming the winds and waves.

Adjective: [here’s where the fun starts]

1. Idylically calm and peaceful, suggesting happy tranquility “a halcyon atmosphere”

2. Marked by peace and prosperity “the halcyon days of the clipper trade”

Thus armed with Truth, the Truth of the Word halcyon, let me proceed, not to tell of a happy or tranquil past time—typically accompanied by youth–but to tell you of the halcyon days of my old age.

I look forward to the halcyon days of my old age. I just know that the issues of middle age – the inertia, the ennui – will be gone. Middle age has other pitfalls. You can no longer shout, “But I’m just a greenhorn!” and get away with murder and other dumb stuff. But in old age, the halcyon greenhorn refrain can once again be uttered—with enthusiasm!

Ach, I must stop myself. I’m headed into the ridiculous terrain of making generalizations based on age. I have no idea what I’ll be like as an oldster. From looking at my dad, (I typed dead by accident, oops!), I know I’ll be more wrinkled, and my skin has a penchant for pastiness. Beyond that, it’s anybody’s guess. I can only say what I hope for, what I imagine.

I want to be active and playful, but not be referred to as spry. I want there to be wisdom in my words, but a dearth of pomp, and to not be referred to as spunky. I want not trinkets, though I would welcome the amulet or two. When speaking with hothers, I don’t want my age to be my #1 concern, or should it be theirs. I don’t want to be patronized. I don’t want to be referred to as a Pirate’s Cove. I learned this term from Jason, a story-teller at DIY Stories night. Jason worked for three years on a cruise ship. An old lady sporting a lot of diamonds is called a pirate’s cove—lots of bones, lots of jewels. Ewwwh, Jason, uh, thanks?

I keep sneezing as I write. Maybe the fault of the incense that I’m burning in the other room, to ward of bad aromas. You see, one of the many dangers of cooking in the home is that food smells do linger o’ermuch. It’s a good practice to eat out as often as possible.

My hands hurt today, I dislike correcting my typos, but it seems like the right thing to do. Thus do I walk (tap) along the straight and narrow way of the righteous.

My path shall always be strewn – or maybe caulked or glazed over – with Biblical snippets.

Also, the spider web over my bedroom window has recently overcome both rain and wind, and remained structurally sound. When I turn off my light to go to sleep at night, I gaze ‘pon it, and feel that I am resting now with the spiders. I really feel watched over, a bit, by their beautiful web. I tried to photograph it with my cell phone the other night. However, the cell phone emits a tiny flasah, which reflects back on the window. To photograph the web I must needs fully open the window. But I worry I could destroy the web thusly. So I shall depict the web, instead, in words. Wait, I meant to say, I just depicted it, sort of.

Gwenn reminds us that we can tell a story again, and again, and thus extract its many juices, flavors, and hues. Thank you Gwenn. (www.onefaceatatime.com)

Love,

Emily