Posted on by judibwriting

April

Magnolia tree by author

April

April showers commenced torrentially overnight. The small lawn outside my window borders a paved road for a firetruck to access this wing of our facility. Beside it is a ditch leading to a stone filled catchment area with a diverting culvert pipe. But it rained steadily all the next day, and the ditch was overflowing my lawn and the road until the water ran inches deep. The water table is high everywhere at Kendal as our one-hundred-and-fifty-acre campus was created from digging out wetlands to create seven ponds. Long time staff would say they had been here ‘since mud” because it was a long time before drainage occurred, the grass was planted, and the foundations were secured.

On the next day, there remained only manageable puddles. The passing egrets, hooded merganser, ring neck ducks and the local geese and mallards are happy. Today it is sunny and in the seventies, so now people are happy, too. I keep writing the paradox of darkness, war, madness, and the unflinching procession of spring. I write to integrate my deep sorrow, to ground myself in thoughts and words to create spacious healthy boundaries, to refuse despair with news being in my face the minute I dip in enough to keep myself informed. My friends all have their own ways to play, to share the best of friendships, families, and brave, uplifting human stories we hear of to celebrate.

Humans do not like paradox. We would rather our path forward was always clear, safe and unchanging. That is never the whole picture of life considering that death is also our partner from the moment we are born. The older we get the more mortality is evident in the losses of an eldering body. Losses may be gradual until one day sudden and perhaps cascading health situations arise forever changing the trajectory of day to day living. Resilience and willingness to adapt will serve us better than railing against this reality.

Adapting to external crisis is harder to bear as we know we have less agency to make the changes we desire. Finding resilience to hold both life and death, sorrow and joy, patience and frustration, is always part of being human. Much is asked of us today, just as ancient civilizations have also had to witness to violent upheavals as a means of change in their own time.

Spring rituals and traditions of all religions and cultures provide a way to acknowledge that we share one precious planet. May we each find our own way to celebrate that Oneness.

This first poem counters the fear that is in in the air these days.

Early Spring Music

Thunder growls as spring jerks

back and forth from sun, warm rain,

to snow in the morning.

She dances to every kind of music.

Tangos, waltzes, minuets, sultry jazz riffs,

hard tock and brass fanfares

from one day to the next as the light increases.

Green creeps in its petty pace from day to day.

Daffodils, pansies, crocuses, forsythias

bide no excuses to halt unfolding,

so why should I?

This next stream of consciousness poem repeats the refrain of spring weather on the first night of Passover, ironically celebrating the freedom of the Jews’ escape from the oppression of the Egyptian pharaoh. Whose freedom today?

April 1st    2026

Last night boom black

shards of lightning

rain rattled my window

like gusts of gravel hitting the glass

today quietly soaking the lawn into a lake






Sunshine-yellow overtakes olive





molting finches dart about





feeding ignoring the steady rain





our raincoats shedding umbrellas shaken





boots off come on in have a seat.










No kidding April 1st





it is Spring unwinding





a vengeance of green





everywhere no stopping





this delicious insistence of life










Despite rites of freedom and renewal





refused decimated by winters





of Their discontent who pays





who wins who loses we hurt





yet she sings the busy birds,





“Listen, we rise again.










neighbor’s patio, by author

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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March
					


	

	

	

		






Christmas cactus by author





The month of March (also the Red Planet) is named after the Roman god of war, Martius or Mars. Our country has honored his name this month in a very visible way. Although there is likely a war always going on somewhere on the planet, this particular ‘war-not a war-a war’- is very visible with the potential for many dire unforeseen consequences. I don’t believe our leader is currently able to process logical systematic ideas. I think unelected advisors are filling his disorganized brain with what to do couched in terms he wants to hear and so he spouts what he is told in his own discombobulated manner. For the moment, this has proven acceptable for the machinery behind the throne. Who knows for how long this arrangement (derangement) will go on? Rashes and bruises aside, there may come a time when it no longer serves their purpose, and they will find a way to move forward with a new face promoting their agenda.





In concert with other powerful violent men, they continue to wreak further havoc on the world. We watch, we protest, we suffer in sympathy and keep working to find our own heartful sanity every day. It is difficult to endure but I am not the one dying from the devastation of daily bombs.





Enough said.





What else is happening in March? My Christmas cactus pictured above decided that the latest thaw that began last month, was the signal to send forth exuberant blossoms. I sat by one pond today and listened to the tree frogs peeping and chirring, so it must be spring, even though they do not read calendars. Down the road I can hear geese squownking loudly in the latest kerfuffle involving impressive water fights with powerful wings. Some paired geese have returned to their own nesting sites from past years and look away from such youthful bravado.





Aconite popped up last month in the first thaw we had, and today the daffodils are swelling with buds even though we know it could possibly snow once again. I am thinking that the old, ‘In like a lion and out like a lamb.‘ is no longer a reliable expectation. The weather is on its own trajectory. I saw mourning doves and heard new songbirds calling last week and I see iris, tulip and other leaves spearing up through the mulch in many beds around the campus. They are hardy as are we. We welcome each warmer day as it comes. I read somewhere online- sorry I can’t attribute it properly- that this is ,‘Wrong coat weather. No matter which coat you choose it will be the wrong one.” She is correct.





The week before last I created a silent retreat for myself. No computer or phone at all. It was nourishing and as I quipped, “It was just like real life only much quieter. All distractions were of my own making.” The following is a poem I wrote about the second to last day. My dear neighbor and friend across the street is Carol, to whom I dedicated the poem.





After the February Thaw





For Carol





Yesterday, whole trees wildly welcomed





an incoming gusty cold front.





Weather gods withdrew





their warm moist breath that melted





compacted snowplow mountains.










Across the road, the white canvas cover





of an outside patio chair





billowed up, puckered in, billowed up, puckered in.





I saw a bird, whose claws were caught in the seat





extending two brown wings flapping and flapping,





trying hard to escape the chair.





I keenly felt its struggle for freedom.










Today, the cold settled down to bite back





your every inhale, condensing around your exhales.





The potent breath of life that gave rise to a bird





made of worn-out cushion stuffing





is gone.










Life is like this sometimes-





we are sure we see things clearly before us-





that then turn out to be





products of our own illusion.










aconite through window by author

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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Valentine’s Day
					


	

	

	

		






Richard,1990’s, in the woods in Bearsville, NY





It is hard to believe that my husband Richard died on 2/14/2018. Eight years ago. A very short and very long time ago after almost fifty years together. Living at Kendal at Oberlin in Ohio has been such a gift to me and I would not be here if not for the work Richard and I did together, making it possible. I wrote something for our Valentine’s Day program to share with the community. I include it now, and those of you who knew him best, please remember to eat some ice cream in his memory, chocolate chip mint if you can fid it.





Valentine’s Day 2026             Love is all Around                                         





Love- I have been thinking about the title of our program, “Love is All Around.”  I believe this is true. Of course, I don’t walk around feeling love inside of me all the time. I certainly don’t feel lovable all the time. But I still believe that love is all around, all the time. For me, love just is. The invisible power of love seems to have been compressed into the singularity that exploded into the universe. It sustained the eons of time it took to bring our planet into orbit with its star, its Sol mate. It manifested in the evolution of millions of species: including you and me.





Lovers, poets, spiritual teachers, philosophers, and even neuroscientists, have tried to define love, to discover its origins. If I had a definition of human love, it would be something like, “a felt experience of Oneness with all things.” All things. I love my husband of almost 50 years who died on this date in 2018. I love my family and friends. I love my morning tea, my computer, and my favorite pillow, and science, music, art, animals and plants, dragonflies and sunsets, seasons in Ohio, and I love our Kendal community. I feel a loving oneness with all that inhabits my world. I don’t love my computer in the same way that I love my family. But I love how it allows me to easily write down my thoughts and to find new information. I can reach out to people living far from me, strangers and beloveds alike.





I am also of the belief that human fear is the opposite of love. Fear of loss grows into ideas and actions of hatred to protect against the pain of loss. Losing control, losing power, fame and wealth, losing your home and country, your health and your life- these losses elicit strong responses from all of us- and yes, from me, when me and mine are endangered. How dare this current wave of horrors change the way I live my life? or threaten the life of my special needs daughter or the future of my grandchildren? I hate what is happening….





Do I love the actions of those people who are purposely destroying life as I know it? No. But still I believe it is the living force of interconnected love that holds our world together. This is so even when I or anyone else behaves in a way that is not life-affirming. I thought I was very bold as a teenager. I hung up a poster my aunt brought me back from Italy that said: Face L’amore Non la Guerra- make love not war. Human love isn’t all passive hearts and rainbows. Love can be channeled into fiercely creative resistance and purposeful action. Many leaders and teachers throughout history have lost their lives while standing up for non-violence, or for compassion, not retribution- all for the love of truth and justice.





I just reread a book that I hadn’t read in years. It migrated with me from NY state to Ohio and was languishing on my shelf. The Forty Rules of Love, was written by the famous Turkish female author Elaf Shafak. It is a novel about the thirteenth century Sufi poet, Rumi. She tells his story as it intertwines unexpectedly with the experience of a modern-day Massachusetts housewife. It won’t give anything away to read you the last lines in the book. I will end with Shafak’s words that say all I really want to say about love.





“It’s Rule Number Forty”, she said slowly. “A life without love is of no account. Don’t ask yourself what kind of love you should seek, spiritual or material, divine or mundane, Eastern or Western…Divisions only lead to more divisions. Love has no labels or definitions. It is what it is, pure and simple.





“Love is the water of life. And a lover is a soul of fire!





The universe turns differently when fire loves water.”





I hope everyone reading this will celebrate love, large and small, in any way that you can.











	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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February
					


	

	

	

		






Me, sitting in wheelchair on left, many more people filing in to sit on the sides and back of the auditorium.





February





On Sunday afternoons at Kendal, we usually have a concert in the auditorium. This one was supposed be performed by two Oberlin Conservatory students playing a program of Shostakovich and Prokofiev. It was canceled as that was the day we had our share of the Big Snowstorm. We had a foot of snow that was just tapering off by 4:00, the usual time we  begin listening to sublime musical offerings.





Instead, given the prediction, Ellie and her husband, new-last-year-residents, decided the night before to call a pop-up peace and justice vigil to be held in the predictably empty auditorium at that time. Amazingly, as some folks would choose to remain comfortably in their homes to watch it on our campus wide TV, we gathered about 75 people around our Peace Pole, newly purchased due to the efforts of a committee spearheaded by Ellie and her husband Carlton. (Ordered from a company that makes them, ours has “May peace prevail on earth” in 8 different languages including Mohawk and in braille.) This spontaneous gathering was truly representative of our diverse community, as we shared voices of our fears, anger, hopelessness, and the many opportunities for active engagement locally, and, above all, hope. We spoke, listened, and sang together for peace and justice.





I was inspired to write a poem for the occasion and was moved to write another one the day after and a final one the day after that.





ICE TRYPTIC :  (three poems for Peace, by Judi Bachrach)





I:





Sitting for Peace in the Snowstorm            1/25/2026





Today, we have snow, you have ice.





We have desert heat, you have monsoons.





We share the same tapestry of sky





shaping the invisible atmosphere





rising miles above our heads





into dark universal space.










We have tragedy, you have joy.





We have violence, you sit for peace.





We have lost a parent; you birthed a child.





Emotions swim in the same ocean,





one drop indistinguishable from the other.





At our most basic,





we are always both a particle and a wave.










What is empty, what is full?





What is real, what is true?





What exists beyond my senses?





Embodying peace subsumes thought.





Embodying peace subsumes thought.





In the atmospheric ocean of peace,





Oneness is universal. I would dwell there.





II:





Embodied Peace   1/26/26





Embodied peace will tell you where to go and what to sign,





who to call, what to say, and when to remain silent.





Peace will tell you when to put your body on the line





and when to retreat because you still have more to do here.





Peace is loud or silent,





isolating and a magnet for gathering





like-minded souls to move the power of ignorance.





Peace erupts like a volcano,





lava streams covering everything





on the way to creating new ground.





Peace radiates the glow of love and justice





weighing exactly as much as that which is needed





to rebalance the scale.





Embodying peace is the work we do





to listen and to take right action.





III:





For the Love of Finches     1/27/26





Today it’s not the inbreath





of horror and anger





responding to wanton destruction





of life and sanity.





It’s the slow outbreath





of resolve to live in love.





The first awakening from sleep





into the world of an eldering body





carries miraculous awareness





of living another day,





another opportunity for joy.





Not in spite of sorrow,





but because I cannot en-joy one





without the other.





Gratitude for seeming opposites





finds a nesting home in my heart





where shivering finches





fluff their feathers sharing our bitter cold.





We feed them and their lives nourish ours in return.





That is how love works.





In gratitude and joy, I offer my life





to the Oneness of love,





one small seed at a time.

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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January: And a New Year
					


	

	

	

		






photo of Buttonbush Pond in Winter by author





We all could make a list of what we would like to have happen in the new year. In our personal lives, we will wish for the health and well-being of ourselves, our families, and our friends. That may mean that we’d like our current life challenges to be resolved in a benign manner, that we will have the strength and wisdom to handle further unforeseen disruptions, and that we may continue to grow and mature in meaningful ways.





The list of what we would like for our country and the world might be roughly the same with some very pointed specifics. There are major changes that we want to see so that we can live our personal lives in safety, free from the harm of an unstable external world.





Considering a new year for both the personal and the external, we are faced with the reality that the two are intimately intertwined. What happens out there, reverberates in here. And, how we hold our inner perceptions, greatly affects our perceptions of what occurs in the world around us. We must acknowledge that so much of our lives is out of our control. This has always been so, but perhaps it is now an inescapable reality to see how fast our assumptions and expectations were upended in the space of this one year, 2025.





To me, the only path to well-being in the face of crises, is to make space inside of yourself to align with what reinforces your capacity to experience that sense of rightness. Elizabeth Lesser used the phrase, “everyday saint” in her book, Broken Open. We do not have to become the Dalai Lama, or spiritual masters- we just need to affirm our best selves in the lives that we live every day.





That moment of reflection before we react in anger, the pause to listen carefully to the person right in front of us even if you’ve heard the same litany of complaints many times before, offering to do an errand for someone else even when you’re tired- these are simple, extremely difficult acts to accomplish. Songya Rinpoche wrote (I am paraphrasing), “Miraculous powers (siddhis) like walking on water are all very well- but not reacting in anger? – now that is a miracle.”





The year that lies ahead looks to be dangerous sailing for so many of us humans. Realistically, it will take a long time for our world turn to back towards compassion and sanity. I feel anger, despair, and sorrow whenever I listen to the news. But I do not linger in those normal responses. I cannot afford to contribute to darkness but will work to bring myself into gratitude for the light that still exists. There are millions of others everywhere who also hold the light, but who are not in the headlines. They are hardworking everyday saints just like you and me.





I wish everyone a Happy New Year.

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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December
					


	

	

	

		






My holiday shelf





It is cold and colder around here in Northeast Ohio, with snow and freezing rain-must be December. On Thanksgiving and the day after at my daughter’s home not far from Lake Erie, there was plenty of snow for the first snowman of the year. My grandsons were thrilled. I don’t drive anymore, so after my son-in-law drove me home away from the white stuff that day, when it snows again where I live, I am free to admire its beauty.





There is the anticipation of continuing holidays in the air. For me, there is a touch of nostalgia from my own childhood to that of our family when my daughters were young. Above, is a photo of my holiday shelf, minus the tiny menorah soon to join the lights. We acknowledge the cosmic approach of the solstice, and we have lighted candles against the dark since ancient times. May we all invest in the hope that the New Year will start bringing us closer to returning light to the darkness of our world. There is no timeline on achieving this, unfortunately. But I cannot afford despair and wish to contribute lightness within my own small circle of family, friends, and neighbors.





I wrote this poem in February of 2025, already foreshadowing the contrast of the beauty of the world outside my window to the ugliness of what was to come.





Predictably Unpredictable Weather   2/16/25





Today the snow fell as temperatures dropped





without yesterday’s warm permission.





It is pretty.





It is soft.





It is quiet.





It draws birds back to my feeder.





Bluebirds return to fallen seeds below.





Everywhere the ground reflects light dimmed





by clouds releasing their crystalline burdens





onto black branches underlining every snow-capped twig.





Reading signs to reveal the future is





a predictable habit, though





hard to break.





Hearts and dreams are so unpredictably broken.










Hawk landing on my bird feeder

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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November
					


	

	

	

		






solar lighting in the Labyrinth garden by author





We are another month closer to the new year which may have a sliver more positive anticipation after the recent elections. “Count your blessings,” is surely an overused and saccharine phrase these days. But if you are reading these words, it is likely that you are fed, warm and dry, and are using your computer in relative comfort. I daily do give thanks for these things that I do not take for granted.





Sure, living in a retirement home that has been undergoing major kitchen renovations of our former 30-year-old equipment and poor set up, now gives rise to food complaints as we endure months of food prepared in 5 huge FEMA style trailers that we have rented for the duration. Lack of dishwashers has meant eating from paper plates, buffet style serving, and endless repetitive menus due to the poor storage and freezer space available.





The entire restoration project is supposed to culminate in a grand Thanksgiving Day opening meal- but we shall see. We are still so fortunate. Most of us buffer our complaints with that understanding and we are very involved in supporting local food banks and services to support those in our area that continue to struggle as our national/state support systems continue to decline. It is horrifying that this occurs in America even as millions all over the world are starving who are also affected by the brutal decisions of our supposedly wealthy country.





Tragedies strike close to home with friends whose daughters and sons have lost their government jobs, their grants, their SNAP benefits, and their livelihoods. We are all affected by their lives as fellow human beings. Counting your blessings is one way to focus on the good and the hopeful during the avalanche of desperate news. It is only a moment of your time and has repeatedly been said by wiser and heartful beings, moments are all we really have. Make each one count as best you can on the positive side of the equation. As I titled this blog long ago, we are: shining light into dark places.

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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October
					


	

	

	

		






photo by author





No sooner did I wax poetic about the crisp fall weather last month than the afternoon temperatures rose into the 80’s every day. We are back in drought territory. It is a lovely time to be a walking, appreciative human being and a stressful time to be a tree. Trees are shedding early with little vibrant color so far. I am enjoying the last slowly vine ripening tomatoes that were also given a final boost. As I sit by the shrinking ponds and the sinking lily pads, I look and hear and smell fall progressing.

Gone to seed





Pods and pinecones





Berries and burrs





Nuts and tufts of wispy





fluff – the urgency of spring





no less the urgency of fall





The laze of summer





The slumber of winter





Love itself has no season





and at the end





all I hope to leave behind.





This fall seems almost unendurably poignant as so many of our valued beliefs and systems have been prematurely forced to go to seed. Living as I do in a continuing care retirement home, dear friends and neighbors are passing in their time. These personal losses on top of global decimation are a lot for my witnessing heart to bear. I am grateful for those in my community both here and outside of Kendal that share their strength of heart with me. Going it alone is not an option.





Yom Kippur was honored with a lovely service enhanced by two Oberlin Conservatory students playing a heart-rending version of the Kol Nidre. I shed tears to share the burden of being human for so many atrocities that we commit as a species. To find atonement- or I as I see it, at-one-ment with the whole of my being, means asking for mercy and forgiveness every step of my path and not just once a year. We each have a role to play in standing for truth, compassion, and justice.





In Catholicism, prayers may be offered many specific times of the day, as in Islam. Compline is the last one before retiring.





Compline Service at Island Pond





Compline service begins.





Insects chirr the plainsong of call and response.





Leaves whisper prayers around the pond.





Planted among the browning lily pads





black and white geese bow their heads





like flowering nuns.





Incense of fall nostalgia permeates the air.










Descending behind the trees





the great orb drops a chilly shroud of evening.





Bless and preserve us, Amen.





I head home and turn on the lights.





I send this taste of peace





to those who have no safe place to sleep tonight





and to those who wake up hoping





to survive another day of war.






	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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September
					


	

	

	

		






cloud puzzle by author





On Turning Seventy-four





Clouds assemble and pull apart,





puzzle pieces against a sharp blue sky.





Clattering leaves shed yellow ones,





introducing this year’s Leaf Ballet.





September weather in August.





Cicadas and crickets are slowing down.





Only yesterday they strummed the air.





September babies like me relish





dew drenched mornings, jackets in the shade,





afternoon sunny spots breaking through.





This will be a good year to stretch my heart





wider and wider with sadder and sadder news.





Love, I believe, has no beginning and no end,





despite human appearances to the contrary.





The fall weather in NE Ohio began a couple of weeks ago, much to my delight. It is a treasure of deep blue sky (a poet friend wrote of “Dresden blue”) with interwoven sun and shade as the clouds drift and stretch like we do at the end of summer. I do not pay much attention to my birthdays as they inevitably pile up but it is a time to see visiting relatives which is a treat I look forward to.





The state of country and world affairs seem to keep pushing us towards a crisis, and as my chiropractor suggested today, perhaps it could be “a small catastrophe”. May it be enough to make real changes, yet not enough to totally derail human infrastructures. It will not be easy to weather nor to repair, whatever forms it will take. 





Our personal dramas unfold against the polarizing tensions and the world keeps turning and our lives go on. My five and a half-year-old grandson started pubic school kindergarten and so far, he loves it. His younger brother continues on in his local small Montessori school and so they are getting in on the best ground floor of education that their community has to offer, even as the future of education is under reconstruction from AI to our national governmental deconstruction. The boys are a source of joy with which I am blessed. 





I wrote this poem after my Dutch friend, Johan Kos died. He was a principal dancer in our small dance company in the 1970’s and I will never forget the duet that he and my husband choreographed for themselves. To see very strong men move together with grace and power stays with me today.





Misericordia is from the Latin “misericors,” meaning “merciful,” –“misereri” (to pity) and “cor” (heart)- the act of extending one’s heart to another’s suffering.” 





Misericordia





The planet turns.





The sun appears to rise.





Branches bowed with rain touch the ground.





The day lies down before me.





Birds shimmer the dawn.





Yesterday, my friend of 50 years suddenly died.





Last night, more bombs were dropped and, I cried.





What losses we inflict. What pain we suffer.





The cat rolls over, asking for love.





The day is belly up and my fingers touch innocence and peace.





May we have mercy this day, mercy.

	



	



			
				



	
		

			

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August
					


	

	

	

		

Yesterday was my 55th wedding anniversary, the eighth one without Richard. I no longer anticipate sorrow or nostalgia on this day but remain open to whatever arises. Last week this poem came to me in remembrance of my newly widowed days.





Holding Hands- a True Story





I moved here as a widow where nobody knew who you were, who we were, or who we had been during even one of our almost fifty years together.





I began life all over as just me, by myself.





A year or so after you died, I lay in bed one night crying softly in a sudden lament,





“But I’ll never… get to hold your hand… again!”





The next day I sat on an observation deck overlooking a swampy pond. A sparkling blue dragonfly alighted on my hand. His multifaceted eyes took me in. His translucent wings rested quietly on his back.





We sat there, he and I, holding hands for a long time.





I have returned to that pond, Button Bush Pond, many times and never again has a swooping hungry dragonfly come near me. It was a lovely recollection, a healing gift from Nature’s bounty. We are all held every day by Gaia.





On the days predicted to be hot, I get outside as early as I can on my mobility scooter. Just before dawn, it is so quiet on this campus with hundreds of residents and staff. Even the noisy geese are inhabiting other ponds in the area. Only the croak of one resident duck couple and a few bullfrogs sounds me out as I roll by five of our other ponds. It has felt like the end of August already, with chilly dew-drenched mornings and hot swimming temperatures by afternoon. In the middle of last month, I saw my first monarch butterfly and heard the first evening cricket and buzzing night insects in the trees. The weather patterns have changed course as any times as our President’s erratic pronouncements.





As I keep reiterating here, I work to keep my heart open as a grounded witness to this rapidly evolving transformation of my country and the world.





I end with one of my predawn poems with my photo.










Venus in the Morning





Venus makes lovelight to the waning half moon





Tress silhouette against the rising glow





A breeze tickles whispering leaves





Wildflowers dance on the hill





One bird, ten birds sing the





miracle of dawn