That damned phone,
my bride declares,
is your mistress,
your mobile paramour,
object of your desires
and confessions, your
and lusty caresses.
(Source: “Mobile Midwife I”, 40×41: Midlife Crisis Postponed)
Heheh… Excerpted from a piquant volley between an exasperated bride and an OS-obsessed deadbeat husband. These opening lines are all but cribbed from the beguiling lips of the lady who miraculously tolerates my idiosyncrasies. In all candor, she has been my real “midlife midwife” (that poem later), and I owe her more gratitude than I can realistically expect to amass over the next four decades. Thank you, Susan!
I’ve played with the idea of a “midlife midwife” off and on over the last year or so. As it turns out, this term usually applies to a woman who helps mentor/coach other women through menopause and other midlife transitions. I’m not willing to surrender this powerful idea, but I’m happy to share the descriptor.
I’m understanding midlife more and more as a metaphorical birthing, an idea that permeates much of what I’ve been creating in this cycle. So, in addition to the the irresistible music of “midlife midwife”, I am playing with what facilitates and catalyzes this midlife rebirthing. The lines above come from a short, slightly flip glimpse at two of my facilitators, my bride and my mobile phone (and the jealousy that can come between them!)