There are things I have come to accept. Not out of eagerness, the way you accept a boxy wrapped gift on your birthday. Neither are they rich with the anticipation of accepting charges for a collect call, which is how I phoned home in college. 

"My daughter calling? Yes, yes, operator! Put her through please!"

Another way to express acceptance is resignation. While the first word may be bright, the second is perhaps muted. I ran into an elderly lady at the store today who has been placed in a retirement community. She did not mention whether it was under pressure from her children, or something she chose. 

"I hope you like it," I offered in consolation. She sighed. It is possible, though I did not mention it, that she will find companionship that was scarce in her big house. Friends, maybe. 

A co worker moved her family in with her in-laws when her husband lost his job. It felt like a set back, to give up the house her children had grown up in. But the mortgage was killing them. A year later, after her husband had found new employment, I asked how it was going. 

"My mother in-law loves having us. The girls give her a lot of joy. A reason to get up in the morning. We are staying."

Being resigned can feel like a truce, or even defeat. But when I tease apart the word itself, re-signed, I wonder. Maybe re-branding can be a good thing.

The seasons change this week, as if a paper calendar wields power over the winds and weather. But it is technically now autumn, which implies that a fifty degree day is not the misfit that it is in summer. I can accept that, and go find the warm socks I haven't looked for since April. 

When John forgets to close cupboards, or put away tools, or can't find his wallet, I can be annoyed. I took that tack for too many years. But I could also resign myself to the reality that he needs me. Which is perhaps something the lady in the nursing home desperately craves. 

Maybe I will go visit her.