I think a lot of people look over their shoulders. They look at past experiences and kinda-sorta mourn for them. They yearn to be young again, agile, perhaps a bit more trusting of our chameleonic world. They oftentimes make themselves mournful for all the missing they visit.

I get it. I totally get it, but I rarely do that... look over my shoulder. I've been a more forward thinking type person - not to be confused with progressive... well, unless you factor in my progressive illness.

But not wanting to get bogged down in that cowpie, I have a story for you.


*****


I'm a Yankee by birth. I grew up in a small town on the north shore of Long Island. Northport's population hasn't varied much since my number was added to the rolls. It's a beautiful village, rich with history and traditions that have been maintained with impeccable custodianship.

My street was Maple Circle. The lot my parents built their home on was the gardens and orchard that had once been part of a large estate. With my mother's New England influence, they built a charming little Cape Cod nestled in lilac, lily of the valley, forsythia, mulberry bushes, apple trees, Chinese lanterns, honeysuckle, dogwoods, roses, and so, so much more.





House on Maple Circle



Across the street, a local tennis club developed from the court I believe had been part of the original estate. It became a favorite destination for people of all ages. The clubhouse was a shack with a Coke machine.

Tennis coursed through my days with a fever that couldn't be tempered. During the summer I'd awake to the sounds of Steve Gianonni preparing the courts for the day. They were clay so required raking and watering and rolling. Those were the sounds that I woke to each morning and propelled me to grab a breakfast bite and my wood-framed racquet and dash to the courts, which were less than a football field away.

At that time, not many girls played tennis. I'd patiently sit on a bench until the guys felt sorry enough for me and offered to include me. Over the years I ended up being a medium good player (sounds better than so-so), but that never derailed my passion.

I couldn't find a photo of myself but here's my father ready to head for the courts:





Dad 1960s



It was during this time that my mother engaged a man from France to give me private lessons on clay. My memory makes me think he was a French Open has-been my mother had met.
It was during this time that my mother also decided I needed to learn how to play on grass. (When I write about my mother and note that growing up with her could be trippy, never, ever doubt me.)

I remember my Uncle Jimmy picking me up in a Lewisy truck and driving me to Centerport to some fancy-smancy country club to have private lessons on grass. I smile to think of those days. My instructor was delightfully old school. He wore long white pants, white shoes, white collared shirt and a sweater with distinctive tennis colors. (The lessons were great, but my favorite part of the day was being with my Uncle Jimmy - one of the kindest men to walk this earth. He laughed with a wheeze while his shoulders undulated.)

I tell you all this in order to emphasize the passion I had for tennis. There was a portion in my life when it defined me in so many ways.

When I lived in Laguna Beach, I joined a country club and resumed tennis, and was clearly still a so-so player, but I loved it! Among other reasons, it was during this time I met my dear friend Alix Wampler Peters. (We talked yesterday.)

I'm guessing here, but I think I was in my mid-40s when I played my last game. I was with my weekend foursome when I realized arthritis had not only won battles, but had finally won the war. I sat on the sidelines that day.

When I got home I had a conversation with myself. I knew I had options. I could sob and keen and gnash my teeth and throw myself on the floor for a good old-fashioned temper tantrum, or I could square my shoulders, be grateful for the many years I had played tennis... and move forward.
And that's what I did. And that's what I've strived to do every time life has handed me a plot twist.






That, my friends, is why I'm living like I am now.

That, my friends, is why I don't look back over my shoulder and mourn for the past.

That, my friends, is why I am able to be forward thinking with gratitude.

It's all so simple.

It's about gratitude instead of melancholy.


*****


So, though I don't wallow in the past, my challenge has been to reconcile with the future... what I'll miss. The task is sometimes difficult, but I've successfully processed some moments I might miss.

One tool I use is to project the happiness of others.

I visualize the joy shared by David & Olivia on their wedding day - the promise of their glorious future together. And that makes me happy.

I project and visualize my son holding his first child... the visual is so powerful, so real, because I remember my over-the-moon happiness of holding him for the first time - well, all three of my children for that matter.

When I do project/visualize, how can I possibly be sad? How?

Isn't that what every parent wants for a child... happiness? And what a gift to know that the joy is shared now while I can?

Well, time to make another pot of coffee.

As always, thanks for stopping by.