I’m gonna be 53 years old in a few weeks. Gasp! I know what I want to do with my life. I want to hike with my husband, listen to heavy metal on my older son's amazing stereo system, go rock climbing with my younger son. I want to help out at the thrift store with my sister, laugh uproariously, be a friend to everyone who will let me, learn to make artisan breads (I already have the cookbook and a baking stone), plant zinnias outside my back door . . . simple things, really.

I’m basically a simple person. I’ve never been one to have my life all planned out. Gasp! I’ve been happy to take it one day at a time, to take the next step when it rose in front of me, to make the best choice I could as the choices presented themselves. I think I always wanted to be a wife and a mother, and that continues to bring me the most joy in my life. But other than wanting to see my writing published someday I can’t say that I have any big plans for my golden years. Gasp! Maybe I’m having a senior moment . . .

More likely I’m just tired. In the past six weeks my life has narrowed. Basically to the small space between my ribs--where my lungs tighten. Even ordinary and simple things have become difficult--the kind of things up to this point I didn’t have to think about, or have always taken for granted, like, gasp! BREATHING! I’ve learned in a very sobering way that breathing is kind of important for all the other things. In fact as far as life’s activities go, it’s like number one.

It’s kind of hard to do much of anything when I’m struggling for air. I’m not talking about hiking into the Bisti with my husband, or taking an evening writing class at San Juan Community College, or eating out at the Three Rivers Restaurant in downtown historic Farmington to celebrate our 26th wedding anniversary. All of which I’d like to do. I’m talking about sliding out of bed to put on my long silk underwear, or standing over the kitchen sink scrubbing gluey egg yolk off the breakfast dishes, or toweling off my hair after a bath. When I can’t get a good breath it takes so much effort to do even these simple things . . . gasp . . . it's exhausting.

A good example is writing this entry. It has taken me most of the day; 10 minutes on the computer, 10 minutes on the couch to rest, 10 minutes to think about what I’m unable to accomplish, 10 minutes to rest.

Actually, being forced to rest allows for a lot of time to think. One thing I’ve discovered is that (is it okay to say this in public?) I’m scared. Gasp! I don’t want my life squeezed into such tight perimeters. I wonder, “What happens if I don’t get better?”

And then I go back to taking one day at a time, taking the next step when it rises, making the best choices I can as the choices present themselves--including choosing to find joy in the small things. All of life really narrows down to just that.

This morning in the dark wee hours I awakened with a start. My thoughts flew back in time on the wings of memory . . . or more like the wings of sensation.

I was a kid again waking up under a half-dozen thick blankets in the small room I shared with my older sister, with a warm body snuggled next to mine--that of the family cat. A sound had awakened me, but not really a sound, something about an absence of sound--as if the house was muffled. And I knew immediately, deep in my bones, that it had snowed.

I lay there in bed last night, sensations and emotions all tangled up in my 52-year-old body. I felt a child again, but knew that was impossible as I was comfy-cozy next to my husband of twenty-five years. Listening to his gentle snores I drifted back to sleep.

When hubby’s alarm clock went off he got up and drew back the curtains from the window. “Bethie, look,” he exclaimed, “it snowed!” Hush, my sweet, hush. My world is sleeping, wrapped in a blanket.