Connections: October 31.17

My daughter-in-law, dear reader,

in her finest witch’s chic

 flexes imagination muscle

a certified Halloween geek.

Eye of toad and tail of newt

bedeck the living room

it’s the masque of Hallowed Eve

from tip of toe to broom.

Many the middle-aged ghouls

(you mustn’t be naive)

who don’t outgrow the Snickers

or love of make-believe.

I salute them and their spirit

their hatted, robed hilarity

infusing real life

with a little jocularity.

 

 

Special Halloween thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives for the header photo today —

and Happy Halloween, dear reader!

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Connections: October 29.17

Deaf phone line

hard blue chair

what’s the point?

no one’s there

austere right angles

sterile, glistening

rigid vacuum:

no one’s listening.

You may think this

nihilistic

but caregivers know

it’s realistic.

 

One of the reasons I started my blog was to write about caregiving. I return to that subject from time to time although I continually grapple with the related issue of denial. It’s so much easier to deny than to listen because listening requires acknowledging. But denial makes the caregiver’s isolation unimaginably more damaging.

 

With thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives for this expressive, poignant photo.

 

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Connections: October 28.17

The hen with the turquoise tail

and watchful ruby eye

busily bustles about

in no way subtle or shy.

Incredulous, unbelieving,

clucking at all she sees

hustling up and down stairs

with never an if-you-please,

she gathers each mote of gossip

slack-jawed, open-beaked,

around and about the condos

astonished and endlessly piqued.

 

 

More thanks to the S.W. Berg photo archives,

and to the D.J. Berg store of whimsy.

 

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Connections: October 26.17

In smallness

and meditative step

a seeker

toes the grass

hajj-like

circling

a vastness

honored

to share in being.

 

 

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The woman dwarfed by the tree is my writing mate Tamara. She too wrote about this moment, but in a different way. Since we are all writers here, you might find it interesting to read her reflection (I recommend it):

Staying Strong

 

Connections: October 25.17

The cat seems to think

black as India ink

that the bed is hers

where she lolls and purrs.

But I say no

it’s my desk, and so

I invite her off

she snores her scoff.

Reasoning with cats

will drive you bats

it’s the fruitless worry

of the sound and the furry.

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Connections: October 22.17

I groped for the word: appalling? scary? astonishing? embarrassing? All the above?

This is one of two units in which the stuff of my life is stored. You know, dear reader: stuff? It isn’t life but it becomes life. Doesn’t it? It tells of people you miss. It tells of the daily. It’s the familiar, the comfortable, the personal.

It’s easy to disdain mere things. They are, after all, temporary. But they are also deeply a part of us. So I stand in absolute terror at the base of this mountain of things. It stretches floor to ceiling and wall to wall — in two units! What will I keep? What must go? How did this happen? What will I do about it all?

But, more important, what do I need? My writing mate Tamara is a minimalist. She and her husband have amazingly pared their life down to necessity. They have by example taught me to re-think ownership. That will enter into this. Also I think I’ve reached a time in life where the letting-go begins. Ironically, a holding-tight happens at the same time. I want to hold tight to memory even as I want to let go of the things that hold the memory.

Thus tension.

I might have a house to go to; I’ll know more in a few days. If so, the whittling begins. Look out for shavings!

 

 

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Connections: October 18.17

I call this Still Life With Mess.

Not that life ever stands still, though at times it seems to. But there is ever a mess. That is, unless we’re sitting around on our…umm…hands.

These three artifacts just happened to end up together as the movers plied their art, and of course I couldn’t help noticing the serendipity. The wonderful pine cone and seed wreath was made years ago by my dear friend Donna, and is one of my favorite things. The assembly-line autumn wreath has been fabulous on my front door here, if I do say so. The decrepit, ancient suitcase was my Aunt Edna’s and holds her academic cap and hood (the heavy velvet and gold of Ph.D.). To the left, the back of a print procured for me at a condo swap by my son and daughter-in-law because my son knew it was my favorite Ansel Adams.

What a mishmash life is.

Today I will leave this place that has been Grandma’s House for seven years. There is some melancholy. But another, smaller Grandma’s House awaits, and both grandchildren have given it a thumbs-up (as have I). So bear with me, dear reader, as I launch myself (albeit, it must be said, a trifle arthritically) into whatever comes next.

 

 

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Connections: October 13.17

Economy of words

is not my strongest suit

I’m Irish, blather-minded,

an English major to boot.

But occasionally I’ll do it

say it all in just one word

here’s syllable to prove it

in a box of the absurd.

Packing up my years

forces me to see

in wording and in living

downsizing is the key.

 

 

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Connections: October 10.17

My sons and I have disagreed

how could they be so crass?

My dear old doll is Mary Ann

but they call her Creepy-Ass.

 

 

 

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Connections: October 8.17

“It’s where you put your eyes”

so went the lesson lyrical

teaching point of view

based on the empirical.

The children’s song holds true

as we try to be reflective

about our portioned turmoil

and strive for sane perspective.

 

 

More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

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