A day measured in questions
“A day in the life is a depiction of mundane experiences, lacking coherence, that immerse readers and provide comfort.”
Painting by Pearl Richard
Welcome to another offering by Seasoned Voices, a shared blogging adventure bringing individual perspectives to common themes. Five women writers, each coming to writing along differing paths. Five women eager to speak the truth about growing older. We hope our cross-pollinated blogging also inspires conversation and reflection for you.
Our theme this season is A Day in the Life. No boundaries, no limitations, simply a day in the life. Sounds easy? Nope! Not when my days are not very exciting at all. I expect many of my days mirror your days.
Most days, curiosity accompanies my daily routine. The older I get, the more my days are punctuated not by answers, but by questions. I am more certain and confident than ever with the life I am living, but questions remain - small ones, existential ones, practical ones, and questions to which I will never know the answer. I find these questions follow a progression through my daily routine. I thought I would take this approach to framing a day in my life.
The witching hour
Many nights I still wake up at exactly 4:02 am with a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach - and an urgent need to pee! I reach out to hold on to the dresser as I step out of bed in our darkened room, uncertain if my arthritic knee will hold me. Then I return to bed. Usually, the feeling of dread dissipates as I come more fully awake, and I thankfully fall back asleep. Other nights, I toss and turn, imagining a dreary future.
Why does darkness make my thoughts harsher?
Why does the future feel so heavy in the middle of the night?
Why do I measure myself by my failures?
Why don’t I take better care of my body?
When will I stop apologizing?
Early morning
I woke up alone this morning; my husband is away for a few days. Bella is stretched along the curve of my body, keeping me toasty. I lie there in the silence of the early morning. My neighbour’s rooster crows. The orange-crowned warbler nesting outside our bedroom window trills. I wrap a blanket around me, slip on my Birkenstock sandals and walk into the kitchen. This morning I have to make my own coffee. Kettle on, beans ground, coffee slowly dripping through the red one-cup filter. I curl up on the couch and watch the hummingbirds as the morning sky lightens.
Why do I wake before dawn when I am alone?
When did coffee become less about fuel and more about ritual?
When did silence begin to feel like nourishment instead of emptiness?
Why does the stillness of early morning feel so comforting?
What two things do I want to accomplish today?
Mid-morning
Most mornings, after my shower and some gardening, I carry my breakfast and second cup of coffee up to my desk. This morning, two boiled eggs and a bowl of local strawberries with a dab of honey yoghurt. This is my favourite corner of our home, my sanctuary. A desk I sanded and stained many years ago overlooks the grazing cows in the farmer’s fields across the road. Swallows nest under the eaves of the window. I am at my most creative in this space. While I do most of my writing here, I also brainstorm here, on large pieces of paper stuck to the wall. I listen to women read their poingnant life stories for the writing workshops I facilitate. I chat with friends via Zoom from this cozy corner. And, with just a small turn of my office chair, the many books that inform my writing and workshops are in easy reach on the bookshelves.
Why is this physical space conducive to writing?
Why do I still feel a small thrill sitting down here to write, even after all these years?
Why do I feel most creative when there are no expectations? Why is it so difficult to write when I have to?
What makes certain memories arrive without invitation?
What stories am I still not ready to write?
Early-afternoon
This is the time for chores and shopping, although I love days when I don’t have to venture out. But when alone, I have no choice. I change my comfy, at-home clothes for something more suitable for venturing out. I stop at the mailbox at the end of the road first. Most days, it is empty except for Canadian Tire flyers. Today, there is a book waiting for me, The Last Mandarin by Louise Penny and Melissa Fung. As I pull into the grocery store parking lot, I hope I don’t run into anyone. I have no desire to socialize today. I grab a shopping cart to lean on to help ease the pain in my knees. My iPhone grocery list ensures I will not have to meander up and down aisles; I need only grab what I need. With my husband gone, my list is short and different from when we shop for the two of us. Today’s groceries consist of falafels, some pre-made salads, Greek yoghurt, and tuna. On the way home, I stop at my favourite farm stand for eggs and lettuce. My list of chores fall by the wayside as I open The Last Mandarin.
Why do grocery stores exhaust me now?
What is the difference between solitude and avoidance?
Why, when I feel so invisible, am I also at my most observant?
Why does returning home fill me with relief?
When did I stop pulling out the vacuum cleaner at the sight of dust bunnies?
Late afternoon
When my husband is home, we wrap up whatever we are doing around 4:30 and pour ourselves a drink. In the winter, we sit by the fire, and as the weather warms, we move to the deck. We talk, play crib, or quietly lose ourselves in our books. Bella comes and lies at my husband’s feet, he is Bella’s favourite. Probably because he takes her for long, rambling walks, which I cannot manage. This afternoon, alone, I make myself a cup of tea and read.
Why does the quality of the light at this time of day make me aware of time passing?
Why does an ordinary weekday feel sacred now? And why do Friday afternoons still feel like the start of the weekend?
Why do I miss my husband the moment he leaves, even though I so enjoy my alone time?
Why do I feel most at peace when nothing is expected of me?
Why do I now savour days my younger self would have found boring?
Bedtime
After dinner, almost always prepared by my husband, I do some chores and fold the laundry. Most nights, we watch the news and Jeopardy. We are both quite good at Jeopardy, but not good enough to ever be on the show. By 8:30, I am in bed, teeth brushed, prescriptions swallowed, a cup of tea, and occasionally a chocolate, on my nightstand. I check WhatsApp and respond to messages from my girls. Some nights, I read my 4-year-old granddaughter books over Zoom. Then I grab a book from the book pile by my bed and read. Some nights, when I am exhausted or my head is whirling with thoughts, I reach for my computer instead and play a few games of addiction solitaire.
Why does the sight of my husband’s reading glasses, folded over the latest Bruno book by Martin Walker, make the passage of time feel real?
Why do I no longer feel the need to resolve every uncertainty?
What parts of me continue to grow?
What did I overlook today?
What was I grateful for today?
Last night, as I settled into bed, I realized the questions themselves have become part of the rhythm of my days. They meet me in the darkness before dawn, accompany me through ordinary routines, and linger quietly within me at night. I once thought aging would bring certainty. Instead, it has brought something more valuable: curiosity, awareness, and a willingness to keep asking questions, even the ones without answers.
What questions run through your head as you wander through your days?
Meet the other ‘seasoned voices’ joining me on this writing journey. Together we draw inspiration from retirement’s blank canvas, filling it with broad strokes of wonder, truths told a little raw, and the vibrancy of possibilities cracked wide open. Click below on their individual photos to read their perspectives on this theme.
