It's nearly 1 a.m. and hard to see anything in the darkness. The night has its own special beauty. But I also enjoy the beauty of the daytime here where we are surrounded by trees and rolling hills. I can look out the window, day or night, and breathe in the fresh clean air. I can feel the breeze on my face.

There were two things I wanted to experience today. One happened. One didn't.

First a little background. Have I mentioned that I'm living in an apartment with my mother? My husband and I still have a good marriage, but after I left the hospital it was decided I should recuperate in this apartment first before going home to my family. I see my boys every day, and my husband nearly every day, and we talk with and email one another on a daily basis. The apartment is only a few minutes away from the house. So that's my life these days, basically.

Usually the boys come to the apartment instead of going home after school. They can catch a school bus that will drop them off over here, and if they plan well they can do their homework or, in good weather, go swimming in the pool. Today, though, my youngest called and said they decided to go home first. I was concerned that they wouldn't make it today because occasionally they don't. But they did come later, along with my husband. I'm always happy to see them.

There was a glitch in my day, though. We can use the exercise rooms of a few other complexes, and my mother and sister were going to take me to one of them today. (I still haven't started driving since I left the hospital. Besides, my son is using my car.) So we set out. But my mother didn't know where it was, and my sister--who had said she did know--just drove aimlessly, without a clue as to the street name, address, or even the name of the place. I was upset at first--very upset, actually--but I'll get there eventually.

I had a good day today. The only thing that would have made it better, I think, is if I had more energy. I started slowing down when I was thirty-five, and now that I'm past fifty it's getting harder. Hopefully, as my health improves, so will my stamina. That would be wonderful.

Time.

Twenty-seven years ago I was learning how to be a mother to my newborn son and preparing to begin my second year of doctoral studies. My husband was beginning his final year, working on his dissertation and hoping to graduate the following spring. We were young enough to manage and I remember those as happy days, but we almost never had the freedom to just be.

Five more children came along, and jobs, and bills. We all know how it goes. Days when I didn't rest until I collapsed into the bed at night. Nights when I couldn't sleep because of worrying about all the things I had to do the next day. I was tired and stressed and it began to show in my children and in my performance at work.

So I quit. I took the step, swinging out into the void without knowing if there would be a net to catch me if I fell. I became a writer, fulfilling my lifelong dream.

Now my days and my hours are mine. I often choose to share them with my children, my husband, and others. But that is my decision now. I am free.

Maybe I have too much time on my hands because lately I've experienced waves of nostalgia.

One day I think about the TV shows of my childhood. Giiligan's Island and Rocky and Bullwinkle were two of my favorites. Would you believe I was first introduced to Shakespeare by Gilligan? And the satire on Rocky and Bullwinkle was brilliant.

On another day I remember my favorite foods. Mashed potatoes tops the list. And there's the candy. All that penny candy. One day I went to the neighborhood store with 15 cents, and my mother scolded me because I spent all that money on candy.  It was quite a big bag because many items were 2 or 3 for a penny. Maybe I should have used some of that money to buy one of their vanilla ice cream cones, the kind that swirl to the top.

Most importantly, there are our family times. Vacations to different areas of our country. Fighting with my sisters until one of our parents (usually our mother) threatened to pull the car over to the side. The beginning of my awareness of life, such as the time when I was five and my mother and I had a brief conversation about the existence of God. (This was after my college-educated cousin had proclaimed himself to be an atheist.)

Do people think about the past more as they get older? There is more of the past to think about with each passing year. It wasn't always "the good old days" when I was growing up. We had race riots and political assassinations, not to mention the war in Vietnam. But it was a special time for me as I grew into the woman I have become.

In an earlier post I mentioned my current unusual living arrangements. My husband and sons live at our house while I stay in an apartment with my mother. There was a good reason for this and it has nothing to do with the state of my marriage.

Anyway, this means that I don't see my two youngest sons (the only ones still at home) as much as I used to. The week before last my youngest got sick and, because of my challenged immune system, I wasn't able to go over there so I went for days without seeing him. When I talked with him on the phone he acted distant.

Finally, when he was well, my mother and I went over to the house. At first my son continued to be distant with us, and especially with me. But he gradually warmed up. Before we left he was happy and animated, sharing stories about school and showing us his new school planner which he had just received. Everything was back on track.

And that was the happiest event of my week.

My husband and I have frequently debated this topic and I still cannot accept one part of his argument. He is willing to forgive someone even if they continue in their unkind behavior. This has happened to us and he has forgiven while I won't. He says that I must. But how can I forgive someone who isn't sorry and won't stop? In that case, it feels as if I would be condoning the bad behavior.

Could someone please explain this to me?

In general, my life hasn't changed much at all. The basic facts (aside from my age) are the same.

My day-to-day life, however, has changed drastically. Because of my new living arrangements I have much less stress and much more personal time. It's a new experience. After spending the last 27 years raising my six boys, I am now freer than I've ever been. I'm still a wife and still a mother, but my obligations have changed.

I'm still a writer too. Last year at this time I was struggling with a novel that is now published. Now it's time to get started on my next project.

When I worked full-time (plus) and my kids were younger this was my greatest fantasy. What I would like is a month without obligations, along with no worries about money and a month for my husband too.

I can imagine the time we would have, relaxing together. I could still write a few hours a day while he pursues one of his hobbies. We could travel to the ocean and the mountains.

It's a great fantasy. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

It used to be very hard for me to say no. I was the college student who belonged to so many clubs I had trouble keeping up with my classes. Later I was the working mother who could be counted on to volunteer for just one more activity. Just this once.

Before I could learn how to say no I had to drive myself into the ground, so tired I fell into bed each night and so anxious I snapped at my kids. Not only that. I had to get physically sick and reach the point where I understood that stress contributed to my illness.

Gradually I learned how to take care of myself. Now it's easy for me to say no. Too easy sometimes. That's okay. My health is at stake.

I think children should be taken on frequent road trips around the country. They should feel at home in the library. And they must, absolutely must, have the freedom to imagine.

One of my earliest memories is of me lying in my parents' bed, after my father left for work, and talking with my mother about what kind of animal we should have as a pet. Every animal I chose--elephant, giraffe, monkey--had some "defect" to keep it from being a suitable pet. We played this game every morning.

I didn't play the same game with my children but I have always encouraged their imaginations. And we have always been able to talk. We still do.

A few years ago I would have answered that people need to be more serious about the realities of life and stop wasting time with idle chit-chat. When there are wars to be stopped and starving people to be fed, who has time for small talk?

But what I've noticed is that small talk, as insignificant as it seems to be, fills an important space in our lives. Hi. How are you? How's the family? These are our bridges, ways we initiate connections with each other.

And once those connections are established, who knows where we might go?

When I was younger I didn't like my birth name, which is Linda. Almost all the girls in my class had names that ended in an ee sound:  Beverly, Vicky, Lori. I wished my name was Mary.

Later I began to think of a pen name and tried a few. In 1990 my dissertation was published and I had to choose a name. That was when Jamilah Kolocotronis was born. I took the name Jamilah, which has the same meaning as Linda, when I became a Muslim in 1980. Kolocotronis is my maiden name and even though the electric company knows me as Mrs. So-and-So I wanted to keep some remnant of the name my father gave me.

My father gave me the name Linda too. Apparently he decided before I was born that that would be my name. So it's a good thing I wasn't a boy. And, because my name is from him, I will always keep it.

In 1915 my grandfather traveled from Greece to the United States, landing at Ellis Island before making his way to St. Louis. I have always wanted to go to Greece, and I would like to go there by boat.

My husband should come with me, of course, and our sons too. And our daughter-in-law and granddaughters. This return to ancestral lands should be a family experience.

First I would lead the family to my grandfather's village. There we would probably find more relatives (he had nine brothers and most of them stayed in Greece). We could also trace our heritage, discussing Theodoros Kolokotrones, the national hero, and those who came before him.

Then I would tour the country. The tourist sites and the natural places. I've always felt that, in a sense, Greece is my home. As John Denver once sang, "going home to a place he's never been before." I wouldn't stay forever, but I wouldn't leave until I really knew Greece.

More than anything, a good conversation needs an equal measure of give and take. Toss in an interesting topic and an amicable atmosphere. Conversations with those ingredients never fail.

Casual is the word. I live casually, comfortable with a little clutter and even a small dose of uncertainty. My bedroom reflects this. So does the way I dress. I never saw much use in spending my time on how I look. I would rather read.

I used to be casual with my health, too, but circumstances forced me to change. Now I am vigilant on that front. My family sometimes says I'm paranoid because I'm so careful with my dishes. But relaxation in that area could cause me to become a casualty.

So I try to treat my body as I do my home. When I can.

The first time I remember wanting to "be" anything, I was in fourth grade and had just written a poem that everyone raved over. I decided I wanted to be a writer. Not only a writer, but a famous one.

Later my career goals changed. When I got interested in professional baseball I decided I'd like to be an umpire. The fact that no women were (or are) professional umpires didn't deter me. But my aspirations changed as I grew older. For a while I wanted to be a police officer. And I actually went to seminary with the intention of becoming a minister.

Once I was in the position to "be" something, circumstances led me into teaching. But one day I remembered my original goal. And now I am a writer. Hopefully one day I'll be a famous writer too.

My health. I haven't felt this good for months, maybe even years, and the people I love the most tell me I nearly died back in July. I am very, very grateful.

Last night I was talking with a nephew about his grandfather. My father died twenty years ago, when this nephew was only five months old and my fourth son was only six days old. They both wish they could have known their grandpa.

I do too. My father would love to tell them stories about his Army experience. They would laugh politely at his corny jokes. He would be quietly proud that my second son looks so much like him. They would learn from his gentleness and his uncompromising honesty.

But he's gone and his grandchildren don't know him. And even though I did have the chance to live with him and know him, I wish I could see him again.

I hoped my oldest son would become a writer. But when asked to write a book report, or anything else, he put down, "It is good. I like it." He still doesn't like writing, though he could talk an Eskimo into buying ice.

My second and third don't like to write either. My fourth and my sixth sons do. But my fifth is not only a skilled writer but he has the imagination and the temperament with which I have been both blessed and burdened.

He went through some rough times at ages 12 and 13, and I cringed when he threw a temper tantrum, remembering my own histrionic nature at those ages. It is very uncomfortable to see the worst of yourself in your own child.

But he has also reflected the best in me. And, truthfully, he's a better writer than I am. Just wait. Within the next ten or twenty years, S. Jitmoud will become a household name.

Music usually helps. For me that means the oldies. Heavy-duty stress, the kind I often had when I was teaching, can be treated with a nice relaxing movie. My Fair Lady is probably my favorite for that. And, in a pinch, breathing deeply and purposefully always eases the stress.