Tag Archive | grief

This Week in Cheese Sandwiches

Oct27

I started the week with a fresh loaf of sourdough, which I hadn’t made in awhile since I was obsessed with tomato sandwiches on the complicated mock wonder bread. It’s a relief to return to the simplicity of sourdough. Tuesday evening in grief, I ate a simple deconstructed cheese sandwich with the first two slices: mayo and havarti on one, butter and rosehip-crabapple jelly on the other. Yeah, the jelly is a little overcooked as I’d feared, a bit thicker than I’d like, and a little sticky to spread, but it tastes great. I had to try it before I send off the jars to the lottery winners. In case, you know, it was a total fail and I had to eat it all myself with a spoon.

With local tragedies and national catastrophes, it’s a good time to remind myself that most people are good and kind and there’s a lot of great news that just doesn’t make headlines while the bad news come so fast and furious. I don’t remember how Daily Good found its way into my inbox, but I’m grateful there’s a group of volunteers curating good news stories around the world (also, it seems that AI is working for good in this instance); 625 stories so far this month, which I trust is a drop in the bucket, simply knowing how many good, sweet connections were made just in my neighborhood this week.

Wednesday’s sandwich was a simple cheddar, havarti, lettuce and tomato, but I wanted extra crunch so I quick pickled some tiny red onions from the final harvest. Mayo and Penzeys sandwich sprinkle completed the project.

One of those good things came in a voicemail yesterday from an unknown number. Last year when I struggled so before hip surgery, I had registered to get assistance from North Fork Senior Connections, and also offered to volunteer for them in some capacity after recovering from surgery. I hadn’t done either yet, and sort of forgot about it. But there’s a new crew closer to home now, and the coordinator wanted to know if I could use help with anything next weekend on their Service Saturday. As it happens, I could! I was so grateful to be asked, and when I called back I also gratefully volunteered to bake and do other light services as needed. I’m looking forward to participating in this community building network created “to support aging with dignity, choice, and companionship.”

In more good news, I started the Bibliofillies pick for November this week, The Book of Hope, Jane Goodall’s conversations with Douglas Abrams. Abrams brought us The Book of Joy a few years ago, chronicling the beautiful friendship of H.H. The Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. It’s perfect timing for me, and maybe for you, too. I’ll take inspiration anywhere I can get it.

Jane has been much on my mind since her death October first. I’d admired her for years before I was fortunate to meet her. I worked at Busch Gardens in Tampa, as a conservation educator in the zoo division of the amusement park. Busch housed a chimpanzee colony, and Jane had just emerged from Gombe after understanding that she needed to speak to the world about the plight of wild chimps, and the urgency of saving the species and their forest habitat. The zoo was aflutter that she was coming to Busch to speak, and would also, incidentally, be evaluating our chimp facilities. She was gracious and kind as she greeted a lucky few of us junior staff. She was not impressed with the zoo’s chimp habitat, however, which prompted a total, costly revamp which ultimately, years later, earned her approval.

She campaigned tirelessly to protect our precious world, and though her hope faltered occasionally, she never lost it, confident for four reasons: “the amazing human intellect, the resilience of nature, the power of youth, and the indomitable human spirit.”

Thursday was cool and grey with glorious rain off and on all day, and snow in the mountains. It was crisp but cold outside Friday so the sandwich had to be grilled: Brie, pickled onion, mayo, and calamondin jam.

Jane told Abrams, “Hope leads to future success in a way that wishful thinking does not. While both involve thinking about the future with rich imagery, only hope sparks us to take action directed toward the hoped-for goal.” It occurs to me: Wishing is to Hope as Empathy is to Compassion: Hope and Compassion spark action. Robert Hubbell’s weekly dose of perspective Saturday touched on this same idea. He covers the White House horrors every day, yet he remains an inspired, hopeful, and inspiring activist, lifting us up daily with his newsletters and a weekly livestream pep talk.

“Hope and optimism are not the same thing,” Jane says. (Boy do I know that from the inside! As I read this I think, Hope is wishing plus Action; Optimism is wishing plus Belief. I’m grateful to be reading a book that’s making me think.) Abrams says, “Archbishop Tutu once told me that optimism can quickly turn to pessimism when the circumstances change. Hope is a much deeper source of strength, practically unshakable.”

Saturday’s sandwich was not grilled, but otherwise essentially the same: Brie, pickled onion, mayo, with the new red jelly and lettuce. And Jane, for company, in the sunroom.

Hope, Jane says, “does not deny the evil but is a response to it.” And later offers this pressing insight, “If we live in a society with a reasonable standard of living and some degree of social justice, the generous and peaceful aspects of our nature are likely to prevail, while in a society of racial discrimination and economic injustice, violence will thrive.”

Today’s cheese sandwich: mayo, havarti, pickled onion, lettuce, bacon, and apricot jam. It was a beautiful, mild day here, on this precious planet, and I savored lunch outside, with a different read, keenly aware of everything, absolutely everything.

“Facing our grief is essential to combatting and overcoming our despair and powerlessness,” she says, and adds, “Every day we make some impact on the planet. And the cumulative effect of millions of small ethical actions will truly make a difference. That’s the message I take around the world.”

I was online leading a meeting this evening so I missed the sunset, except for the layered cloud colors I could see through the kitchen window beyond my computer, and the alpenglow, which I could see behind me through the east window, reflected back to me in my square on the zoom screen. There was a pang of longing to be out in it. So I was thrilled to get a text an hour later of this gorgeous sunset over downtown Hotchkiss from my friend Mary Hockenberry who caught it on her evening walk.

The Sweater

Oct9

I mentioned the sweater awhile ago, how I bought the pattern somewhere between fifteen and twenty years ago but could never muster the motivation to find the perfect yarn, or tackle the complicated pattern; and how I finally did both this summer. I started knitting sometime in June.

By mid-September I had knitted the back, front panels, and sleeves. I had to rip out many inches of the second sleeve after I suspected I’d gone off the pattern by one stitch. I thought, “How can it possibly matter if I purl two – knit one instead of knit one – purl two” but it turns out it gave the sleeve a distinctly different look. But it was worth doing right, so I patiently ripped out six inches back to the cuff and did it right. I learned so much about knitting as I picked up dropped stitches, corrected mistakes, figured out how to tie a secure vanishing knot to connect skeins, weave in loose ends, and unknit complicated stitches when I realized I’d missed one. I learned a new and more refined way to cast on, and several ways to bind off. I took my time assembling the panels and sleeves, and learned different ways to sew knitted pieces together depending if they were vertical to vertical, or vertical to horizontal, or on increasing or decreasing edges. It was really fun! I was grateful for my new skill of patience.

I learned to knit buttonholes when I knitted the two front bands, but here the directions failed me. There was no explanation of why the front bands were shorter than the front panels, so I knitted them long enough to experiment with when I got them sewn on. I had blocked the front bands with special pins and special blocking foam, but they felt very loose when I attached them. I sewed those two seams just as I’d sewn all the others, and the long bands fit the front panels perfectly. Something was wrong.

I went ahead and knitted the neck band anyway, and the whole sweater just felt floppy. I spent one whole day undoing a week’s work, but hey, I had patience! And it was worth doing it right. I ripped out the neck band, unsewed the front bands and shortened them, learning how to sew a short band to a longer panel and make it come out even, and then reknitted the neck band but made it a size smaller. Finally finished! I was sure I had six silver buttons of the correct size in my button jar or button box, but I did not. The best I could come up with were these brown leather-covered buttons, and I kind of like the contrast. One day one of them will fall off, and then I’ll go buy some silver buttons.

I stumbled into accidental cocktails this evening when I delivered a yard sign to dear friends, and since I was wearing the sweater I asked my captive audience which included three crafty women, how can I make these bands less wobbly? They all shrugged. None of them knit. But the retired park superintendent spoke up softly suggesting I block the sweater. I giggle just to think of it. His mom used to knit, and he dug into some memory strands and recalled she laid it out on the kitchen table, put a towel under and a towel over, but he wasn’t quite sure what she did after that. It was all I needed. The vast resource of YouTube knitting tutorials taught me from there. Tomorrow I’ll steam block the sweater and we’ll see what happens.

On the way to accidental cocktails…

The retired park superintendent mentioned a new group that he’d joined, and when I looked it up I realized that I also can join it! It felt great to sign up to join them, and to set up an automatic monthly donation. Only three dollars a month, but if every former seasonal employee like me, or everyone who ever volunteered at a national park, or worked there for a career did that, what a resource we’d be together.

As I was leaving accidental cocktails I savored the view of my friends’ garden with the tentative storm beyond. A small flock of sandhill cranes had just flown overhead seeking their evening roost. I felt their ancient voices keenly.

Arriving home again shortly before sunset.

Looking west from the top of the driveway, a sundog; a few minutes later, looking east, a fraction of a rainbow.

Grief is an acknowledgement of loss, an emotional state in which we exist between what we once understood or knew to be true, and an uncertain future where someone or something we cared about no longer exists with us. For me, acknowledging grief and allowing myself to dwell in this open space, this bardo, is a relief, and a step up from the paralysis of Despair. So I’ve spent a joyful day connecting with people as I ran errands and received assistance at a couple of healthcare appointments, relishing the feelings of simultaneous grief and gratitude, instead of bouncing between the opposites of gratitude and despair.

We walked to the west fence after sunset to see what the clouds would do. But the lone horse in the neighbor’s pasture to the south looked longingly at us. The rescue horses to the west had all gone in, and this sweet mare’s interest in us was compelling, so we strolled the fenceline down to greet her. Turns out, she wasn’t the least bit interested in me: she was fascinated by Wren. The two grazed together placidly for awhile as I watched clouds. But after awhile she snuffled my hand and let me caress her velvet nose, and we communed in silence til the color left the clouds.

RX: Metamorphosis

Aug3

What a marvelous sight greeted me at the bottom of the stairs this morning! Topaz was watching a baby bull snake lying still on the floor. I only saw it when I took a step and it wiggled away. I fended off Wren and picked it up gently. It was so gentle and calm, and curled and crawled around my hand as I considered the best place to release it, but it never panicked or thrashed.

After I released it into the wood pile, where I hope it finds enough mice to remain there forever and live long and grow big, I came back inside and tried to put her collar on Topaz as she knelt at her food bowl, the way I often do. I reached around her neck with the bell and she jerked and flipped around wide-eyed. I tried again now that she knew it was just me, but she wrenched away; after I washed my hands she accepted the collar willingly as usual. I’m grateful for the little dose of wonder that started my day.

One reason I practice gratitude is because of my innate pessimism. Well, I can’t say innate in the sense that I was born with it, I’m not sure I was. But it came to me early through a series of prophetic dreams that started while I was still in single digits. So this article about likely societal collapse didn’t shock me as it might some of you, should you choose to read it. History shows that increasing wealth inequality consistently precedes collapse, contends economist and international relations expert Dr. Luke Kemp in his new book Goliath’s Curse, which analyzes 5000 years of human civilizations’ collapses.

“…as elites extract more wealth from the people and the land, they make societies more fragile, leading to infighting, corruption, immiseration of the masses, less healthy people, overexpansion, environmental degradation and poor decision making by a small oligarchy. The hollowed-out shell of a society is eventually cracked asunder by shocks such as disease, war or climate change.”

Last night was Zoom Cooking with Amy. We chose a simple pasta sauce made from sautéed zucchini, which we blended with some garlic, parmesan, salt&pepper of course, and a little pasta water. We spooned that into our bowls, topped with pasta and more parm, and I sautéed a handful of frozen snow peas from the spring garden in the hot zucchini pan.

Sound familiar? Kemp lays the imminent demise of our so-called civilization at the feet of “leaders who are ‘walking versions of the dark triad’ – narcissism, psychopathy and Machiavellianism”; and while he says that a fundamental transformation of society on a global scale could save our species, “the large, psychopathic corporations and [world leaders] which produce global catastrophic risk” make self-destruction more likely.

This reflects, to one degree or another, my fundamental world view since I was a child. It’s less popular and less acceptable than believing in aliens, so I don’t articulate it often. It’s something of a relief to read it so clearly outlined by a scholar of human cultural history.

Kemp suggests that “even if you don’t have hope, it doesn’t really matter. This is about defiance. It’s about doing the right thing, fighting for democracy and for people to not be exploited. And even if we fail, at the very least, we didn’t contribute to the problem.”

Hope is a conundrum for me. It can mean a passive wish for good things, but I prefer the interpretation of Joanna Macy, who died last month at 94, that hope is a verb, that how we live matters, and that this time in history is one of great unraveling and also of the potential for a Great Turning.

My life’s trajectory continues to lean into celebrating this fragile, spinning globe and all the Life that supports our tiny existence. It’s really a question of perspective, of world view: Domination or collaboration? Each of us chooses how to live, every living moment of every day.

Though it’s taking a lot longer than from tadpole to frog, I’m grateful for my own metamorphosis through the years. And grateful to photograph a fully formed froglet flying through the water—next challenge: film it.

Having Known…

Jun7

I’m grateful for having known these two beautiful beings in my fleeting life. Stellar left us a few years ago, and my dear friend, teacher, and mentor is on her way out of this worldly realm this week. I’m grateful for all she has taught me and the ways she continues to inspire me. It’s been a rough couple of weeks as she’s been preparing to transition from this body into the realm of pure consciousness. I’m grateful she has had friends and family to support her and keep her comfortable through her sudden decline. Goodbye, dear friend. My gratitude for your influence in my life knows no bounds.

Perspective

Apr12

This week’s bread, one-quarter rouge de Bordeaux flour and the rest all-purpose, made another beautiful loaf. As it was cooling, I was craving cream cheese-olive spread, so I whipped up a batch, and enjoyed it on the warm heel and one slice of fresh bread.

Later that night I finally made the lasagna rolls I’d been planning for several weeks, first chopping and sautéing kale and mushrooms with a few minced garlic cloves.

Then the veggies get mixed in with ricotta, parmesan, and an egg, and spread over cooked (and cooled) lasagna noodles. What a juggling act that is! The noodles have to be cooked enough to be pliable, cooled enough not to melt the cheeses, yet warm enough not to have dried out.

Then each noodle gets rolled up neatly and nestled in a bed of marinara, topped with more marinara, and sprinkled with ample shredded mozzarella.

The result is a pan full of richly delicious single-serve lasagna portions, so delicious, so convenient. I froze some in pairs, but found that one roll made an ample meal. This was a five ⭐️ recipe, and I’m grateful to my vegetarian cousin for sharing it.

The past few days have finally afforded some time to spend outside for all of us. Biko is enjoying free rein in the whole yarden at last, and so grateful to be out of his round pen. He still has to come in overnight until temps stay above 40℉, but as soon as I put him out in the morning he ambles up to the spot that gets first light and sunbathes there until he’s warm enough to start his morning rounds grazing fresh grasses and weed sprouts. Wren reminds me each evening when it’s time to go find him. Even after all winter without this job, she hasn’t forgotten her responsibility, and seeks him with bounding alacrity as soon as I ask her to “Find Biko!”

I’m grateful for the right tools for the job, as always. After cutting back bunch grasses with the hardy little Sunjoe yesterday I warmed up enough to lose the vest, and then powered up the weed torch for the first time since I bought it last fall. This is a great little tool for weeding crevices and other hard to reach spots. I’m grateful for the energy and time to be able to work in the yarden for a little bit of each day between shifts at the desk.

This morning when I stepped outside after meditation, I got a little jolt seeing Topaz resting on top of Stellar’s grave. They were close. I’m sure I’m projecting, but there was a poignance to her lying there, where I’ve never seen her before. She’s still not too fond of Wren, and I think she, like me, still misses her big old dog friend sometimes. But maybe it’s just a cozy spot for a morning nap. And maybe I’ve just been feeling the loss of that great dog a little bit extra this past week, as I mourn the unexpected death of a bright young man whose mother I’ve been close with since before his birth forty years ago. I continue to feel the shockwaves of his parents’ and siblings’ grief a few thousand miles away and a week later. I’ve known a few friends over the years who have lost a child in various ways, and each time the magnitude of their loss has paralyzed me. I cannot imagine anything worse.

Now, with the wisdom of age, the sharp personal grief I experience for my friend is softened by an expanded perspective: As I hold empathy for this one profound loss for one family I love, I can also feel compassion for the thousands of mothers across the world who lost a child on that same day. Depending where you ask, between 16,000 and 30,000 people under age 40 die every day worldwide; one source reports that 14,000 children under age 5 die daily across the world. As the Buddha teaches in the Five Remembrances, I am of the nature to grow old; I am of the nature to grow ill; I am of the nature to die; all that is dear to me and everyone I love is of the nature to change and I will be separated from them. I am grateful for the (still tenuous) equanimity that I’ve found in reckoning with the truth of death and impermanence.

I’m grateful for the ineluctable return of Spring.

I am standing still in the embrace of the apricot tree, waiting for a good shot of a bumblebee. I look down to see Wren silently looking up at me, clearly wondering what I am doing.

Apricots

Aug2
Awwww… it was three years ago this month that my precious Ojo’s life was ended by a mountain lion… He was such a special cat. And I guess it was a banner apricot year in 2019 also, when this was taken. I still miss him. I’d give up all the apricots forever just to have him back with us.

My view of the Supermoon last night. I’m grateful for living in the country where I can step outside and experience a wild, natural nighttime. After a night sky break, I came in and made dessert for today, yogurt-lemon curd popsicles.

Continuing to eat down the meat in the freezer, I thawed a couple of lamb shanks overnight and braised them in red wine and vegetables, then reduced the broth and shredded the meat, made a biscuit topping, and baked a delicious lamb pot-pie. For my first pot-pie ever I was real pleased with it.

The Boyz loved the pops but I think they were more trouble than they were worth. Philip tries to warm the mold so we can pull them out. Next popsicles will be simpler.
My little baromewren had a rough day: during lunch a neighbor was shooting so she sought refuge in a corner of the patio; this evening we were blessed with a thunderstorm including actual RAIN, and she’s been huddled in a pile of towels in the laundry room since before sunset.

After Buddha School and Bibliofillies zooms I got outside just in the nick of time to pick two baskets of fruit before the storm rolled in. I gave away most of what I picked the other night, but quickly replenished the stockpile. From now on for a few weeks it will be all-apricot-all the time: lunch, breakfast, cocktail… and anywhere else I can think to use them. I’ve pencilled in Saturday to make the first batch of jam.

Rocky

Jan9

Rocky the Dog brought delight, joy, laughter, and love to people around the country, in person and virtually. On Fruitloop Mesa he was everybody’s favorite neighbor. He wore with dignity and pride the titles of Honorary Bad Dog and The Littlest Catahoula, among others. It is with great sadness, and deep compassion for his beloved Deborah, that I relay that Rocky transitioned today to his next big adventure. He passed with peace and grace, and is relieved of ongoing suffering. He was fifteen years old.

From his very first days in this community, Rocky loved everyone, and everyone loved Rocky. I’ve shared numerous stories and pictures of him through the years, and this remains one of my favorites: the moment Rocky and Raven met, when he was less than one year old. He stole my heart from the first moment I met him. He brought joy and laughter to a dear old lady in her last months, and when she died I was grateful to be able to help find him a perfect person with a perfect home and life for the rest of his years.

Here, he is so proud of his first ever snowman, which he made to surprise me.
I’m grateful that I got to babysit Rocky often through the years, enjoying his precious presence and sharing his joy with lots of friends. He made himself perfectly at home wherever he went.
Always the gentleman, Rocky was the life of every party.
Rocky had true equanimity. He loved everyone, large or small, human or otherwise. He was also a fierce protector when needed, chasing deer and hunting rodents like a wolf.
As wild and playful as he could be, he also loved to relax on his back and get his tummy rubbed, and he readily gave many people many opportunities to enjoy this activity with him.

Rocky’s effervescent spirit will be missed and long remembered. Our hearts are hurting. Fly, little man, fly into the great unknown.

Resurrection

Apr17
Male and female evening grosbeaks and house finches flocking together rested in the top of the birch tree the other morning.

It’s been a long, cold, lonely winter, did I mention that before? I had a lot of recovering to do from the drawn-out demise of Stellar, which was physically and emotionally grueling; and actually quite a bit of settling into a new normal without some of my closest friends who also died over the past two summers, from Ojo to Auntie to Michael and more. This spring does feel a bit like a resurrection for me, and what better day to acknowledge that than Easter Sunday?

Looming larger these days in the back of my mind is how will Topaz receive a new addition to the household? I am pretty much ready for a dog!

I pulled out the new husband-camera which has also lain dormant all winter, and realized I had no idea how to use it, so I also pulled out the manual and spent some hours today figuring out all the knobs and buttons — most of the bells and whistles will have to wait for another day. I haven’t even attached the ‘good’ lens yet but still got some pretty pictures. The two nights of deep freeze last week did not destroy all chance of apricots this year, at least up on this mesa. The tree was loaded with buds, and while most of them had just opened before the freeze and are now toast, it seems that many unopened buds survived and are blooming in this next round of balmy weather. I hope that the valley orchards fared as well.

It was this Mourning Cloak who arrived yesterday that inspired me to bring out the big camera and get ready to wallow in my favorite pastime again. Last year, the ‘good’ lens lost its auto-focus and would have cost a lot to repair. So I dove in headfirst and sprung for a camera upgrade and two new lenses. It helped a lot that I could trade in the old husband and all his lenses at B&H Photo, my go-to AV store in NYC. They offer great help over the phone, and reliable goods and shipping.
While I waited for the butterfly to come in range of my seat on the bench, I missed a bumblebee but got a mediocre snap of a honeybee. There were just a few other small native bees buzzing around; maybe because it was windy, and is still kind of cold at night… or maybe because there are fewer bees even than last year. The loss of the almond tree last year has cut their spring smorgasbord sadly in half.
Not many native pollinators seem to care for forsythia, but this western yellow-jacket was enjoying having it all to itself.

“At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.”

Albert Schweitzer

The Mindful Life Community daily guidance this morning brought suddenly and vividly to mind the journalism teacher in high school, Dottie Olin, who became a lifelong friend. She inspired me then, and I became editor of the paper. For three decades we stayed in touch, visited when I was in town, and her joie de vivre and boundless joy in life grounded me in unstable times. I was grateful to visit her often during the months I lived in Virginia while my mother was dying, and we became even closer. She continued to inspire and support me well into her 80s. Shortly after my mom died and I moved back home to Colorado, I got a note that she was dying of lung cancer. She said, “It’s nobody’s fault but my own,” as she had smoked all her life. She was at peace because she had lived fully and with so much love. I was devastated to lose her as well as my mom in the same year, 2004. I hadn’t thought about her recently, and love that she came to mind so vibrantly as someone who lighted a fire in me and rekindled it through the years. Just the thought of her this morning lifted my energy and got me outside and moving around in the garden, motivated to make the most of this beautiful spring day, this precious day that will never come again.

Life is Hard

Feb23
Obligatory joyful pet picture, Topaz in a tree.

Even for someone with almost everything (except true love) life can be hard from time to time. There is so much suffering in the world that I can do nothing about, and then there’s my own personal, ego-centric suffering. This or that didn’t go my way, this or that person doesn’t care about me the way I wish, this or that beloved has just died. Just this evening, I learned that one of my best high school friends died the first summer of Covid, a month after Michael died.

My old friend Wayne, who died of Covid in July 2020.

I hadn’t known him well for the past ten years or so. His beloved wife was radically opposed, I think, to our friendship, as she was to virtually every belief I held about reality, except the love of dogs–and Wayne. He was a great guy. We grew apart as our political differences fueled that awful cultural divide that plagues the country now as pestilentially as Covid 19. The last time we connected, jovially, on Facebook, was about a year before Covid arrived. I’d been thinking about him quite a lot this weekend when I cooked a batch of cheese grits, and served myself some leftovers with a lot of bacon. The last time we were really close was not long before the Colonel died, when Wayne and his wife visited at The Home, and we all wallowed in the endless bacon buffet at Sunday brunch. Grits and bacon, a Sunday brunch tradition for us for all the years my parents lived in The Home.

Cheese grits on the bottom, kale and garlic, a fried egg, and lotso bacon.

Why they feed old people all this fatty awful food I have never comprehended, but us younger folks sure enjoyed it. I remember that last time we were all together, before they moved to Phoenix and then the Colonel died, they were in the buffet line in front of me, and I heard her make some unkind remarks about the old folks in front of us, and he laughed. He fell a little bit in my estimation then. He never used to be unkind. Anyway, they moved, and we corresponded a few times, but then Trump happened, and they were pretty rabid supporters of his, and so that was essentially that. I went on Facebook this evening to try to promote my upcoming Mindfulness course, but was so distressed by the divisive comments on a post I’d made a couple weeks ago from ‘friends’ I don’t even really know, and from some crassly commercial spam on our high school page, that I decided not to share my course information on that platform.

But I did look up Wayne, having him on my mind from the grits and bacon, and was stunned to see some posts from his wife referring to his death. I followed his timeline back to his obituary in July 2020, to learn that he died after a two-week struggle with Covid. That news has exacerbated my already prevalent sadness as I begin to face the grief of the many other losses sustained in ‘my little life’ during the first two years of the virus. None of them, til now, have been directly related to Covid, but they have all contributed to an uncomfortable sense of aloneness–some might call it loneliness, but I eschew that word and concept–that has only kept growing since Stellar’s departure last November. It is becoming harder and harder to care. I keep checking in to see if I’m experiencing equanimity, or indifference. Peace with impermanence, or simple despair.

Wayne introduced me to my first real high school boyfriend, his best friend Mike, who I think turned out to be gay, but oh well. I spoke some French, and one night Mike played me a song he couldn’t understand in which a phrase sounded to him like Shut the door. It was actually Je t’adore. We had a good long laugh about that. Mike gave me perfume and roses, and played the total romantic, but he couldn’t get into sex with a woman. Or at least with me. Wayne and I stayed friends for decades after Mike had disappeared from both our lives. Every time I flew back east he’d pick me up at the airport, and he was a rock during the time my mother was dying of PSP and I lived in Lorton, VA, for almost a year to help her through that.

There have been a lot of people around here that have died of Covid, but those few I was peripherally acquainted with were much older. Wayne is the first peer I’ve learned of to die from it. I’m not surprised, given their politics, but I was shocked in a different way to lose an old friend, and hold the regret that I hadn’t reached across the divide to him sooner, in time to share some love before he died. I messaged his wife my condolences, of course. And now I sit with this regretful loss, on top of all the other grief I’ve been holding with equanimity until recently.

Too much current sugar, in the bad morning habit again of sweets with coffee, in this case a homemade buttermilk doughnut.
Negative Covid test a few days after potential exposure at the grocery store. For what it’s worth, given the unreliability of these tests to accurately identify Omicron infection in a timely fashion.

For the past week, I’ve been exceptionally tired, and my blood oxygen has hovered around 88, going up or down a few points depending on when I measure it. Relevantly or not, a week ago I was standing in line for the pharmacy, when an unmasked man passed a couple of feet in front of me and sneezed a giant, congested, snotty sneeze just two feet in front of me. He did sneeze into his coat sleeve, but still, I could practically feel the blast on my masked face. By Friday I felt hot and had some feverishly delirious all-night dreams. I didn’t have a fever, and I tested negative with one of my free government home tests, but I’ve been sleeping til almost noon the past few days, and going through daylight hours in a bit of a stupor. Who knows, I probably don’t have Covid or I’d have worse symptoms, but I do have some mental anguish.

Grief, for all the beloveds I’ve lost over the past two years, and missing the physical comfort of my precious black cat and my dear old big dog; anger at the stupidity of the human race who is so fucking impatient to be done with Covid that they’ve set it up so we’ll never really be done with it (see BA.2 variant doubling weekly in the US); bristling at the nasty, self-righteous pontification of near-strangers on ‘my’ social media; pure physical weariness and pain from the longterm effects of ancient tick bites and too much current sugar; sorrow at the metamorphoses of some significant relationships into less than my preferences; and overall resignation to the entropy of life on this fragile planet.

A glowing moment of delight, lemon-ricotta pancakes, thanks to MFC sending me the recipe. Way more trouble than they’re worth, but delicious.

However, I’m grateful for the skills and perspective of the ancient wisdom of mindfulness, which enable me to get up out of bed every day no matter how late; to meditate myself into a place of calm abiding; and to be aware of, attentive to, and grateful for the ephemeral beauty, joy, connection, and love that flows along within this precious life. We are all grasping at straws–they can be straws of loving kindness, compassion, empathetic joy, gratitude, and equanimity, or they can be straws of rage, hatred, envy, greed, and aggression: the choice is ours to make.

I’ll choose the path of love and kindness any day, no matter how challenging. “On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree.” ― W. S. Merwin

Acceptance

Nov15

I realized the second I hit “Publish” last night that I had just spouted something old, a view at odds with what I actually currently believe. Yes, intellectually, philosophically, mentally, we are each alone; but, fundamentally, energetically, elementally, spiritually, we are All One. All sentient beings are interconnected in ways Western science has yet to fully comprehend, but at the forefront of consciousness studies is the dawning recognition that we are literally all connected. So, when I remember this, and I think in cosmic terms, and even in the sense of community, networks of friendship and support, I do recognize that I’m not really alone.

Further, I really feel this in my bones, my inherent belonging in this world teeming with life. From the microorganisms living in symbiosis with my body whose cells outnumber my human cells 10:1, to the insects in my summer yard, to the brilliant avifauna of tropical forests represented in today’s completed puzzle, we depend upon each other. We are all animated by the same force. We just don’t really understand what that is yet, or what to call it. Life. But I feel it. I’ve lived close to the earth for most of my life in one way or another. The boundary between inside and outside is quite permeable at my house. Even as a little girl climbing the poplar tree, and hating boys who burned ants with a magnifying glass, I’ve felt my connection with all living things profoundly for as long as I can remember. It’s made for a hard life, among a species who’s so hard on the planet. I’m grateful for acceptance, resilience, and equanimity, all recent acquisitions which contribute to contentment and joy, even in times of loss and grief.