December 31.20: Coping

A wink, perhaps,

lightly nefarious:

above the noble

“Stradivarius”

the truth is stamped,

hidden slyly —

“Copy” — by luthier

deft and wily.

 

I think it was no coincidence that 2020 was the year I attended to my father’s violin, which I had allowed to fall into disreputable condition. I’d needed some sense of grounding, of continuity, in a year of such cataclysmic instability. I had it repaired and renewed for my grandson this Christmas, and there was indeed grounding. This was the instrument my father played in his grade school orchestra, circa 1925.

 

The one he played in our family Christmas concerts (a merry barnyard kind of sound) and introduced to his grandson circa 1977.

 

The one I rescued from my own shameful neglect and presented — in its well-worn KantKrack case, beribboned and (it seemed to me) proud — to his great-grandson this Christmas.

A violin doesn’t have to be a Stradivarius to be priceless. And 2020 has made us acutely more mindful of the priceless things that ground us.

Thank you, dear reader, for all your encouragement and insights this year. May the new year bring us all the repair, renewal, and tuning we need, may we be grounded in the priceless things of life, may we be mindful of those who grieve and who care for our sick, and may there one day again be real hugs!

 

 

December 24.20: Coping

Stories connect us;

the tales that we tell

try to fill the unfillable

of a deep human well,

but sometimes words falter,

they’re easily spent,

and we must turn to music

to say what is meant.

 

Whatever your stories, dear reader, whatever your traditions,

may they bring you peace and comfort.

Whether you soar with Beethoven’s Ninth

or (like me) warble along with ancient Robert Shaw records,

may there be the wonder of music for you.

Maureen

 

December 23.20: Coping

Little fingers

leave a trail

made of paper

bent and frail;

older hands preserve

the mystery

of taped and crayoned

family history.

 

 

December 22.20: Coping

Time! That sneaky,

cantankerous power,

measuring immeasurables

by paltry hour,

grinding slow

when I can’t wait,

racing ahead

when I am late,

deliberate, cagey,

ever contrarian,

unbending, stern

disciplinarian.

It mocks and laughs

at helpless me,

scurrilous in its

hilarity.

My clock has stopped

at ten past eight

but feeble tickings

reverberate

through quiet night

and restless sleep

reminding me

that time won’t keep.

It will proceed,

will not defer,

disdainful of

what I prefer.

 

When I was a kid, dear reader, time stopped every December and I knew Christmas would never come. How like now. Time does seem to have stopped, and I must thank you, dear reader, for being my new batteries throughout a tedious, painful, terrifying year.

 

 

 

 

December 20.20: Coping

The pond crackles

on my eyes

as papery floes

epithelialize,

fragile bits

of water skin

turned to diamond,

inchoate, thin.

 

 

December 19.20: Coping

The fine art of living

can be plated,

the cold of the world

attenuated,

the chill of the news,

bewildering, gruesome,

stayed by affection

 expertly toothsome.

 

 

With thanks to photographer S.W. Berg

and to popover artist Cassandra Berg.

 

December 18.20: Coping

Live trees with their fragrant cachet

aren’t meant for a feline sashay,

but when Willis the dog

gets the cat all agog

the tree can’t get out of the way.

 

 

Thanks to photographer Eugenia Roche.

December 10.20: Coping

An amazement happened yesterday —

I’ve no idea why —

my phone just upped and worked

out of the clear blue sky!

I had no magic word,

no high-tech stratagem,

so respect the awesome power

of the Christmas M&M!

 

HAPPY EMILY DICKINSON’S BIRTHDAY, dear reader!

 

December 8.20: Coping

Yesterday my phone quit. Disheveled, wild-eyed, I scrapped my to-do list and headed for the phone store, where I took my place on the proper social-distance marker. It appeared a long wait was ahead; I was right. A cool-headed young man, the lone employee, was trying valiantly to take care of two accounts with a small masked throng gathering.

In all, I stood for about an hour, enjoying my steady intake of carbon dioxide.  At one point, the cool-headed employee offered snacks; this was not encouraging: do people wait so long there that they have to be fed?

My hips aching, my face steamed, my spirit sagging from the pure misery of being stuck in a world of gizmos, I was dimly aware that more customers had come in behind me. And suddenly everything changed. “Put your mask on!” “Shut up!” This began a shouted rage among three customers.

The anger was intense on both sides. It was impossible not to notice how close to the surface this anger was. The flare-up was too loud, too quick, too easy. The furious unmasked stormed out.

Finally someone looked at my poor phone and said I needed a new one. I drove across the street to Target and bought some Christmas M&Ms instead. Mint M&Ms.

The vicious rumor that my phone dates from the rule of Charlemagne notwithstanding, I am not adjusting well to this. I don’t want a phone. I want some peace. And reason. While my hat’s off to the cool employee who responded so professionally to the outburst, even the powers of Christmas M&Ms couldn’t undo its effects.

In this past year, I have seen much kindness and patience among strangers. It is, I fear, wearing thin.

December 6.20: Coping

FASTER! it goaded,

SPEED! it said;

I swallowed hard

and shook my head.

I don’t want fast,

I want some slow;

I want more stop

and not more go.

Network, server,

gigabit,

radio wave:

what is it?

Mega, macro,

ultra and such —

improve my life?

Not so much.

I can’t keep up,

my brain is boxed,

must watch some ducks

and get detoxed.