I am not crazy.

Back in my youth, (a pinhole vision down a long corridor of life), the river bordering our family property was typically a gentle body of water. I could hear the sounds of the small waterfalls dipping into the swimming hole. What still sounds like a singsong whistle of robins regaled the air. And, the zzzzzzzzzz's of the mosquito before it became suspiciously quiet as it nestled on some unreachable spot of my body. We still own that land. Someday, I will go back there but expect it won't sound the same.

In the spring, the water crashed with white water as the snow melted and I suppose the dam's were opened, diminishing the other sounds of nature.

This winter, changes in my body spoke to me like a class six rapid. I had no clue where the dangers lay, but it was clear something was occurring and I had better put on a life vest and grab a good sturdy corner of the raft.

My mantra was "be patient". I said that from December to last week. I finally found out that my constant draining fatigue and halted metabolism was due to an underachieving thyroid gland, among a few other wacky changes women endure as they age.

This is not an admittance of aging, however.

What it does mean is while I am still chanting, "be patient", I know there is an end in sight. My monastic eating habits will eventually become more elastic, allowing me to a small cup of gelat0 or indulge in a hamburger sitting in a dark, dense bun.

Until then, I will sit on the diving rock above the whitewater and relish that I am in control of my own destination, for a spell.