I’m going through an honesty stage at this time of life, hoping not to offend in the process but to bring to light the fact that we are all so much alike. Secrets, when kept, only keep them ugly or shameful. That we all have agida up the wazoo and there are ways to break our horrors down into small enough bites that it won’t quite taste so bad.
Most of the time people are pretty accepting of my faults as I lay them out on the table. Maybe realizing that they’re not alone and they more or less have the same kind of drama in their lives. Maybe just because I’ve verbalized some of the weak and stupid things I’ve done in my life and have learned from the experience and become the person I am now somewhat in spite of myself.
My personal journey, even through these columns, helps me to just be who I am — no pretenses, not much to hide. The public personas we all share, trying to hide the same things that we all have on our plates, is time wasted. Somehow sharing myself and hearing subsequent stories, makes me feel like one of the gang, like I’m not alone.
And although some of the stories are heart wrenching, the revelations are cathartic and peaceful in their surrender of secrecy for both the teller and the listener.
I have a fabulous house that the bank wasn’t able to foreclose upon, so lucky I am! A nine-acre “gentlewoman’s farm” of my dreams down by the falls — an 1800s house with two barns and 700 feet of creek frontage. I’m playing farm girl this last move of my life, with a mini horse, a sheep and five chickens.
Our first year here I stepped on a rake and like in a three stooges movie, knocked my two front teeth out. As they used to say on Green Acres, “farm livin’ is the life for me.”