Lately, I’ve had considerable difficulty connecting with anything – a task, an experience, some good work, a close. friend. It feels like I’m on hold, going through what it takes to drift from morning into night, on to the next 24 we’ve named a day.

Plans are hard to make. Things I’ve looked forward to for months show up bland. Instead of pumping into the peloton, I reckon it’s not worth the effort, move to the sidelines, get passed. No one looks back.

It’s easier to languish in loneliness, isolation and I-told-you-so. Easier than the scramble it has become to simply keep up, never mind leading the charge to the phlebotomist, orthopod, neurologist, cortisone shot, podiatrist, biopsy, jumbo boxes of panty liners and the DMV.

I’ve decided to try on not being in gratitude. Succumb to the reality it takes to organize, re-organize, repeat. To locate one of the 34 pencils, I have stashed everywhere I might need one – I’ve switched to soft lead, so my hands can manage. If it isn’t noted in writing, it doesn’t happen.

I find myself extending unwelcomed compliments to young people I am instantly enamored of – at places such as the Supermarket – behaving as if I were a peer. How embarrassing, stop talking, go away.

Apparently I’m retired. From everything about my life having nothing to do with some old-time-used-to-be job, lover, house in a faraway place, friends or passion.

And what about the mystery of what comes next, or the funny business around the corner; curiosity, hope and the connectedness it takes to sustain a life?

I have no choice but to see this one through, sit a while, pack a few things, hitch into the next ride.