There’s been a lot of talk in the media about the 40th anniversary of the moon landing. So much talk in fact that I now know that the moon landing was on July 20, 1969: a fact that I have managed to live my entire life to this point without knowing.
Perhaps it was the depths of my ignorance or perhaps media insistence on the event (or perhaps simply encroaching dementia) but somehow or rather I became convinced that today was Thursday 23 July. I went about my daily tasks in a week filled with domestic crises small and large sure that for once I knew the date. Children back at school, tick; rearrange guitar lessons, tick; long, depressing talk with plumber, tick; research alternatives for dealing with sewage, tick; find new carer for Blithe Boy, tick; make doctor’s appointment, tick; the list went on.
And then driving between one lot of busyness and the next, I looked up and the Great Dividing Range was stretched across the horizon shouting for attention, the silvered winter grass foregrounded the dark blue and grey mountains, the wind demanded to be heard, the sun peeked at me, birds flirted in the trees, flowers were shaking their bright heads and I realised something. From the beginning of time women have worried over looking after their families, childcare, getting food on the table, keeping their mate happy, work demands (whether paid or not). My own concerns seemed fairly minor in the scale of the world and of history. Then I got home, looked at the calendar and realised that I somehow jumped a week.
The glory of it all. An extra whole week before that deadline I was worrying over, that visit to the dentist, that family wedding glooming on the horizon. I would dance and shout for joy, but Blithe Boy is asleep so I’ll settle for a quiet huzzah.