May 29.20: Coping

Mere water and light,

how very explainable,

but I suspect something more

legerdemainable.

 

 

May 27.20: Coping

You’ve seen “The Scream,” yes, dear reader? This is “The Gasp.” I made this! I, who scotch-taped pieces of fabric together to make doll clothes, made this mask with actual needle and thread. And no blood stains! I did, of course, draw blood because one of the rules of sewing is Stab yourself with the needle, but for once I didn’t get it on the material. Sometimes I amaze myself.

When I stepped away from the blog a couple weeks ago, my intention was to do what I could to re-arrange my head to survive this barrage of grief and flim-flam. What does one do with such resentment and frustration and creeping hopelessness in isolation? One grabs a dust rag and follows the lead of her ancestors.

Yes, I’ve been cleaning. To be clear, my housecleaning would never pass inspection by my mother or grandmothers. But I told their ghosts to shove off. I’ve cleaned, thrown out, packed away. It is symbolic, of course, but it is also a proven way to clear my head. If I can dig into something physically, I can dig out mentally.

I have baked, continuing my search for the El Dorado of gluten-free blueberry muffins.

Gardening beckoned but opportunity was limited to occasional cold and soggy weeding. Now overnight it’s the Amazon. I have mourned the death of spring in keeping with this season of requiem.

I started to go out last week, feeling like one of these emerging cicadas.

I made a mask!

Physically I’m better, but still get short of breath and tired. Fortunately, I was born pokey so slowing down comes naturally to me.

I have missed you and been concerned about you, dear reader. I hope you’ve managed to keep safe and sane.

May 14.20: Coping

Thus far, dear reader, I have coped by writing and by baking, two time-tested strategies for me. They aren’t working any more. A few days ago, we were bloodied once again through the reports of a terror attack on new babies and new mothers. That was one too many for me, awash as we are in grief and fear.

I’ve been sick, as some of you know. Nothing serious, just enough to keep me from being complacent. I don’t know that I had COVID; we still don’t know if my “presumed positive” son had it. We still don’t know much about COVID. “Don’t know” is the only wisdom we have.

Having seen my family only from a distance, unable to touch them, for two months, I think I have a sliver of understanding of what it might mean to die among strangers in Intensive Care.

I am disgusted and exhausted by the flim-flam.

I’m going to step away from the blog for a few days. Each of us has to find ways to stay human in this very dehumanizing time. I am looking for my ways.

Thanks for being with me in my blog. I worry about all of you and hope you endure.

 

May 13.20: Coping

When rain takes down

the petals of spring

and color lies dying,

when bough and branch,

weary of weight,

sag groundward,

do we pretend not to see

how much like us?

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

May 12.20: Coping

On toothpick legs

with eye bright black

in marshy grass

he stalked a snack.

Deliberate his movements

just to make me mad:

if I took five hundred pictures,

five-hundred-one were bad.

 

I think this is a new one for the pond, dear reader!

Maybe a sandpiper?

May 11.20: Coping

Is it a window

if no one looks out

and no one looks in?

What’s it about?

It’s ever so pretty,

an unblinking eye,

watching the birds

and years flying by.

Maybe that’s all,

enough just to be

a fanciful brooch

on limestone lady.

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

May 10.20: Coping

Ten of my mother’s favorite rules:

     Nothing is clean if you do it the easy way.

     If it holds still, iron it.

     Always counter the opposing view with “that’s just dumb.”

     There is no such thing as too many Christmas cookies.

     Always bake with butter.

     Never leave the house without a hankie.

     The punch line is irrelevant.

     Pie is for breakfast.

     Nothing is more beautiful than cows’ eyes.

     Gardening isn’t work.

My resident gremlin has hidden the photo I wanted to post with this. If you, dear reader, have experience with such a gremlin, then you know it is absolutely not my fault that I can’t find it. But I know my mom would love that peony bud.

I am not a big fan of what Mothers’ Day has become here, but I’m a fan of all mothers and fathers and grandparents and foster parents and all others who step up to nurture and protect children. May they all, present and past, be honored. And may we find ways to help them at this time.

 

May 9.20: Coping

The gnarly muffin,

oven art:

happy stomach,

happy heart.

Each lump a wink

of what’s within,

promise of sugar

on the chin.

 

I read of COVID projects.

One of mine is the pursuit of the

perfect

gluten-free

blueberry muffin.

A worthy quest, don’t you think, dear reader?

 

May 8.20: Coping

Sometimes perfect form

is jarring to the brain,

absolute alignment

inhospitable, profane.

A disordered kind of order

comes with emptiness;

we’re healthier by far

with a little bit of mess.

 

 

This, dear reader, is not an argument for opening up

before we are medically ready,

but only my commentary

on what is.

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

 

May 7.20: Coping

In song to the moon

at end of day

Robin chirps

his roundelay,

the lyrics rising

plaintively:

What fools, what fools

these mortals be!

 

OK, dear reader, not all. Not all.

 

Thanks to Shakespeare for his ever-timely words,

and thanks to Robin for holding still.