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March through April

photo by author

My friend Len was concerned about me because I hadn’t written on my blog since February. What? I didn’t? Nope, I had to look for myself. Actually, there is nothing to be concerned about.  I stopped writing on another website about that time as did a lot of other writers whose work I had appreciated there. The algorithms they were now using meant that a lot of us were no longer getting viewed or commented on. Something had changed and many switched to another site altogether. I decided I have enough writing on my plate just for Kendal- sometimes people are asking me if I would write something for their occasion and with my own projects, I am kept as busy as I need to be. Looking back, I see I just didn’t feel ready to get back online for a while.

That said, here I am, catching up from March to the end of May with a few poems.

The Plot at the End of March

Three weeks ago, the pond was covered in melting ice.

Today, bright green duckweed mats are melding.

Mated Canadian geese part them effortlessly

as they swim to the far end of the pond.

Their usual nesting spot is hidden beyond

a small forest of last year’s dried canes.

Some lie broken on the water creating a raft

for a sunbathing palm-sized turtle.

Around the perimeter of the pond

tiny frogs trill croaks of love and territory.

Tree frogs continuously chuckle soprano gulp

up in the balcony above my head.

I see hoof prints in the mud along the road.

A deer was here.

Pussy willows are purring,

early daffodils are almost blooming

and away from the frogs, more and more

distinct birdsong can be heard.

The field is full of winter-dead wildflowers.

Seeds are long gone but tasty insects are stirring.

I can almost hear new stems stretching beneath the ground.

Even in my room, I saw the first tiny ant

emerging from the baseboard where the plumbing chase

is a yearly highway for ants in my building,

reminding me that spring stirs everything

outside and inside of me and my home on this plot of earth.

None of us can ignore what is happening in our country and the world. I have written many poems to try and integrate the dismay we are all feeling. When I first saw how much money had initially fled my investments this poem arose.

Unlike Flocks of Starlings 4/8/25

Unlike a flock of black starlings flowing as one

graceful murmuration in the sky,

words and numbers etched in black ink

are flying away in frenzied chaos.

Disruptive change is healthy

for organisms creating new growth.

Organic destruction of dead matter is embedded

with intelligent patterns of renewal. 

The ripple effects of panicked incoherence

destroyed what once was.

We long to know that our flock

will land in safety again.

This universe is based on expansion and contraction,

always reverting to balance,

when healthy order inevitably returns.

May our flock lift wings together with that surety.

Which brings us to April. I wrote this back in 2007 when a Shad (other names are Serviceberry and Juneberry) tree was blooming right outside my bedroom window when I spent many hours in bed from my MS exhaustion. There is an Ohio version of this tree right outside my window ripening into berries as I write.

The Shad Tree, ‘07

Every spring the Queen of Lace

holds court outside my window.

The royal decree is trilled aloud

by avian courtiers perched in her graceful branches.

“Build nests in field and forest and

by June shall our white blossoms become red berries,

a feast for you and your kin.”

Unlatching my window

I receive the royal summons

on the first warm sunny day.

She nods to me in the breeze.

I curtsy deeply

inhaling all that grows, crawls, flies,

and swims upon her earth.

This year of recovery

I match her abundance.

With a trilling cry of my own

she and I are become

this season of rebirth.

I will build a nest in her arms and learn to sing.

In fact, I am no longer able to sing my own songs that I have written since coming to Kendal. I have lost the ability to keep in pitch. I have made friends with a very talented musician, writer, pianist, singer, engineer in Oberlin- who kindly has transcribed 10 of my songs that I want to use as an album to give to Kendal marketing to use as they wish. I am distributing this collection of songs to musicians and singers, both residents and staff, who will record them with another resident who is also a sound engineer and singer himself. This project has also kept me very busy and by the end of the fall, I hope it will all be done and available to stream online somehow from Kendal’s website. The logistics I leave up to those who know what they are doing. I am very happy to know these songs won’t languish in my head but can be appreciated by others.

Now onwards to June, which is just around the corner…

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February

I have two pieces I’d like to share this month. One is a poem from today. I usually start out with an impulse, idea, or phrase that moves me to start writing a poem. I never know where it is heading until I come to what feels like an end. Sometimes I lose my way and sometimes I feel the ending isn’t right but I want to keep the beginning and see what happens if I shift a word or phrase until I realize I was headed somewhere in an entirely different direction. I learn what it is I really wanted to say. I have written a number of poems and phrases regarding our current political reality but this one started out with what is happening right outside my window. The sobering world entered in anyway.

February 1 2025

After weeks of a deep freeze

it is raining outside.

Brownish green grass reappears

beneath vanishing snow-

color TV after
so many black and white reruns.

We know it will snow again.

Outside my window

birds will flock back to their feeder,

the chipmunk will curl up under a new white blanket.

But for today we are reminded

seasons of the world keep changing, even

this darkening season of blighted

compassion, reason, and viable hope.

Some roots below will die and some will live on

insisting on life that waits

for the planet to rotate and tilt

towards and away from

our blazing star that dictates

how much light we harness

to grow and support

all that lives on this earth.

For the second piece, I was asked to contribute something for a Valentine’s Day program for our Kendal community. Again I had no idea of what I wanted to share as it is Richard’s (my husband’s) death day anniversary. What came was a complete surprise to me and it feels right, just as it is.

AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT…

A Very Short History: From a Sexy Nude Dude with Washboard Abs to Naked Baby Angel Bottoms on Valentines Day.

The ancient Greeks started this god of love business. Their multiple gods and goddesses often enacted the worst of human traits demonstrating infanticidal rage, greed, jealousy, and yes, lust. Eros was a hunky, adult male deifying desire. It is not surprising that his parentage is a bit murky. He could have been the result of several different notable couplings. Eros was a very powerful figure and his ability to manifest whatever he wanted to happen, could be disastrous. He was both handsome and seductively dangerous.

Gradually, Eros physically evolved into a chubby youthful figure. Richard Martin, a professor at Stanford says, “If a woman controlled his every move {in this case his mother Aphrodite}, then mortals would have no reason to fear him. Eros was suddenly not so powerful anymore: He would act only on his mother’s wishes.”

In any event, when the Romans took on the Greek pantheon as their own, Eros slowly morphed into Cupid, an even chubbier youngster portrayed with wings and a bow and arrows. Roman Latin used the word ‘cupido’ to mean passion or desire. This god Cupid could only follow his mother’s wishes to make people fall in love. The word cupido may have been based on an ancient Sumerian word for love. Passionate love has always been recognized as a powerful human force.

Christians had several martyred monks named Valentine, and so, we celebrate Valentine’s Day on their feast day. Perhaps this day was superimposed on an early pagan celebration called Imbolc, honoring the ancient Celtic Goddess, Brigid. Originally held in early February, this day represented spring renewal, growth, and fertility, which went beyond the idea of romantic love. The celebration was devoted to the propagation of sustaining Life itself. And yes, blessed babies were born from this happy celebration.

By the 15th century, Western artists began to fixate on the idea of chubby little winged cherubs that dwelled amongst the host of Christian angels. Why anyone thought that endowing mischievous boy toddlers with wings and weapons was a good idea, I cannot imagine. My grandsons, having left the baby stage at the advanced ages of 3 and 5 do not inspire confidence as to having reliable angelic powers except for wringing pure love out of me when they are sound asleep. Then they are Hallmark card models, and you could skip the flowers and go straight for chocolates. 

History aside, this is the day on which we have agreed to celebrate love. This is a bittersweet day for me because my husband died on February 14th, 2018. But, please note that my husband had a terrific sense of humor. I invite you to sing with me the chorus of a song I wrote some 40 years ago, the first verse of which was about him. The chorus is a short and sweet nod to love itself.

The words are:

Love, what a short word

 Love, what a long 

Love, what a strong word

Love, love, sweet love.

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January: Hot Chocolate

my grandma cup holding my first grandson.

I originally wrote this hot chocolate piece last year when I spent New Year’s Eve and Day at home n my residential community, Kendal at Oberlin. This year I had a wonderful bittersweet visit with my daughter’s family at their home. My grandsons are now 3 and 5 years old and we played many games, sang many songs, ate well, and they definitely ran and jumped around (a lot) inside as it was too wet and cold to be outside. It was very sweet, if appropriately tiring for all adults involved. The bitter part came because the whole family is leaving in 5 days for Barcelona and returning in July.

My daughter is taking the family to Spain while she does her academic research there. Her husband works remotely, and the boys are enrolled in a school in Barcelona that has students from many countries for as long as their parents remain in this very international city. My older grandson will be taught half in English and half in Spanish. The younger one will likely learn Spanish by osmosis with his age group in the schoolroom and on the playground as younger children often do.

When my son-in-law was preparing to drive me back home, the 5-year-old said goodbye , then added, “But grandma, you aren’t leaving forever.” I assured him I was just going back to my home and will be ready to greet him when they returned from Spain. The three-year-old apparently cried after I had I left because he hadn’t said goodbye to me. In fact, he had a 2-year-old moment and had refused to say goodbye as I wheeled away in my ever-fascinating wheelchair. Fortunately, FaceTime will remedy this omission and will keep us connected for the long haul over the next 6 months. I am so happy they are going on this grand adventure and I will miss them all like crazy.

Hot Chocolate 2024

As a kid, I wasn’t all that fixated on chocolate. Weird, I know, but unless there was chocolate in a rarely offered pastry like eclairs, napoleons, or croissants, I’d go for a piece of creamy or fruit filled pie every time. From a family box of chocolates, I’d gladly eat the ones filled with the good stuff- jellies or fruit fillings that nobody else wanted. S’mores were only part of outdoor fire events, and drinking hot chocolate was for outdoor winter playtime. With or without marshmallows or tiny peppermint candy canes, hot chocolate wasn’t chocolate to me, but something exotic and foamy and wonderful to drink as hot as my child tongue could take. Holding a steamy cup between snow-cold fingers after sledding and skating was a treasured ritual.

Hitting menopause changed my tastebuds. Dark chocolate suddenly acquired its proper place in my personal food pyramid. Because of living with MS, I never have been able to ingest lots of sugar or caffein without inducing an inflammatory immune response. To the outside observer, this dark chocolate desire is not evident. Once in a great while I can usually handle maybe one square of 95% cacao chocolate for dessert. It is deeply satisfying to me while others cannot believe I like something that is barely sweet to them. For me, the lack of sugar allows the essence of the chocolate flavor to linger and inform my senses with its tasty mystery.

Today, on New Year’s Eve, I remembered that I had a container of organic dark chocolate powder mix to make a cup of hot chocolate for myself. I opened a box of almond milk and microwaved some in my favorite cup. In went four decadent tablespoons of the mix. Stir vigorously, and voila! Hot chocolate. No marshmallows or candy canes were injured in the process of this experience.

I sipped and gazed out on the gray day. Some of my neighbors are away, and the paths are quiet. Even the sparrows and house finches are no show outside on my bird feeder right now. I slowly sip and nostalgia arises for my family. One daughter is home with two coughing little boys so there was no sleep for the family last night. Naps have ensued. The other checked in while streaming her favorite gamers after successfully selling off some furniture at the local secondhand store. All is well enough in their world, and I finish my drink with deep satisfaction and so much gratitude.

In my grandson’s Montessori preschool, each child’s birthday is marked by the birthday child circumambulating around a ‘sun’ to mark the passage of the year. A paper crown and, of course, cupcakes, follow. My just turned four-year old grandson knows it takes a long time for another year to pass before he will be ready to go the ‘big kid school’. We, too, have circled once more around the star of our planet. I will mark the event with my neighbors in some low-key gatherings, and now that I rediscovered the hot chocolate mix, I will greet the new year with one more cup even though this year there is no snow, no ice, and no crown, paper or otherwise. At my age, time is fluid in nature. A year seems forever to a youngster, and to me, it is more an arbitrary marker as seasons continue to confound us with unpredictable weather patterns due to our climate crisis.

            Raise your cup to auld lang syne (old times’ sake), whatever your choice of beverage! May 2025 bring unforeseen opportunities for deeply healing changes to “Crown thy good with brother/sisterhood, from sea to shining sea”, and all the way around our deeply troubled world.

December raindrops on berries in Courtyard Garden pond

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‘Tis the Season

Gaia – photo from internet

Thanksgiving was wonderfully exhausting for one of compromised body but worth every moment of time spent with extended and close family. I have much to be grateful for. I did come home with the start of a baby cold which today, is still a full blown (and blowing) head cold. But this, too shall pass and does not diminish the warm glow I also carried home with me despite the polar temperatures ,“that are making it feel a lot like Christmas…”. Confined to my room as much as possible to avoid sharing my viral gift, I have been thinking.

When there are more floating islands of garbage in the oceans of the world, than there are islands of land, my grandsons will not mourn the loss as I do. They will have grown up with a world that has already lost so much of what I took to be my planet Earth. There will likely be few fish or vital coral reefs. Animal species found only in zoos and preserves, mountains covered with trees found only in a few remaining national parks, digital recordings imitating the lush sounds of rain forests- this is a small taste of what may lie in their future. To them, these profound changes will already seem normal and not losses.

Generational gaps of experience have increased so rapidly in my lifetime. I believe there was a greater generational overlap in my own past. I could understand the assumptions and expectations of my grandparents and my parents’ lives because our culture had progressed more slowly in their lifetimes. My grandson was born in 12/2019, on the cusp of the Covid 19 epidemic. Within the first month of his life, only a very few vetted people were allowed into his house, and everyone wore facemasks. There were no trips to the library, grocery stores, or playground. He had limited contact with anyone other than his family with the help of a single babysitter, and the child of one close friend. The atmosphere of fear and uncertainty was everywhere, despite the best of precautions for safety.

I, on the other hand, spent childhood summer days outdoors unsupervised, and only came back home when it was time for dinner. There was an assumption of safety that no longer exists. While my 82-year-old neighbor was shocked by the assassination attempt of the presidential nominee in 2024, her 20-year-old niece assumed it was life as usual in this country. ‘Oh, another shooting.’ Whereas, I was shocked to see my mother crying for the first time when JFK was killed. Of course, it shocked the nation, not just me and my mom.

I, on the other hand, spent childhood summer days outdoors unsupervised, and only came back home when it was time for dinner. There was an assumption of safety that no longer exists. While my 82-year-old neighbor was shocked by the assassination attempt of the presidential nominee in 2024, her 20-year-old niece assumed it was life as usual in this country. ‘Oh, another shooting.’ Whereas, I was shocked to see my mother crying for the first time when JFK was killed. Of course, it shocked the nation, not just me and my mom.

In 1981, my grandmother couldn’t understand how I had driven to her house with my firstborn baby in the car. “But Judi, driving with a baby in your lap is so dangerous.” I explained to her about car seats for infants buckled in the back seat with seat belts and she was relieved and amazed. She mentioned that my husband would soon be flying out of “La Guardia Airfield” for his job- newly named airports were not yet in her vocabulary.

Compared to those memories, the advent of technology with internet access via computers and smart phones is that much more startling. The steady infiltration of AI is beyond anything like the advances that occurred in my grandmother’s generation. I often endeavor to explain the world to my 97-year-old neighbor. I caution her to not answer her single landline phone when 99% of the time it only rings with scam calls. She can’t help picking it up every time, navigating her wheelchair with great effort to answer it. “It sounds like the same woman again. I tell her I can’t hear her, but she keeps talking and talking. I feel badly but I finally have to hang up on her.”

As my neighbor is gradually losing her cognitive abilities, I repeat that she doesn’t have to be polite, that she can simply hang up as these callers do not actually want to talk to her, but only want to sell her something or to get information from her which can be dangerous. She agrees but still picks up the phone politely out of a lifetime of habit. She cannot hold the idea that a telephone call could be dangerous or that she could be so bold as to hang up on a caller.

My grandsons will automatically know the dangers of this world and how to manipulate technology in ways I cannot begin to imagine. They will accept our beautiful, decimated planet as simply the way it is and mourn only the changes that will occur during their lifetime, that future one which I already feel distanced from.

This generational sense of loss has happened since homo sapiens arrived on the planet. The new naturally replaces the old. (What? tie a stone on the end of a stick to make a weapon?) The sorrows of my generation may seem unique, but so it has ever been. I deeply wish that the new may align more closely with values that are essential for continued life on this planet, values that sustain and honor the whole of creation we were gifted. I know the turnaround is not likely to make such a course correction in my lifetime but perhaps it will start with my grandsons onboard. That, I would like to imagine.

The holiday season has begun, and here, the decorative lights are showing up as the early mornings are as dark as the late afternoons. I anticipate ritual religious traditions with warmth and celebration joining my fellow retirement home residents no matter their affiliations. It is a time to gather the community together as we gird our loins for what happens after the January inauguration. We will keep ourselves and our loved ones, our neighbors, and our country close to our hearts to nurture and heal whatever destructive acts that may come our way. Nobody knows what the future holds, and it is time to dig deep into our strength with faith in our capacity to meet the challenges ahead. May it be so. May the light attend you and yours, now and throughout the new year.

October Northern Lights above Kendal at Oberlin, photo by Rebecca Cardozo

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Hope Arising

It has been a slow evolution of experiencing fall weather here in northeast Ohio. We’ve had cold nights but a lot of warm and windy days. Halloween night was kind to children wearing only their costumes without the need to cover them up with jackets.

There has been no need of imagining things to scare adults as we now are in for 4 more years of destructive chaos post-election. Fortunately, for me, my body simply cannot handle fear and despair. I think of a Rumi poem that says something to the effect of, “If you are selling fear in the marketplace, I’m not buying.” I cannot handle it in this body which has an already overloaded nervous system from 55 years of living with MS.

I am not dwelling on what might or might not happen. I see humanity as swinging on a pendulum always moving between chaos and order, darkness and light, destruction and creation, and fear and love. I am intensely curious to see where the pendulum lands after the dust of rancor, lies, and told you so’s die down. I am aware that we are no longer able to easily reach a peaceful equilibrium at this point in our history. But order follows chaos just as creative chaos follows too much rigidity. We are not exempt from the laws of Universal Mind which arose from cosmic chaos to create our universe. All according to an order that scientists are still proving, uncovering more and more through new technology.

Meanwhile life goes on as it will in our individual lives. For those of you reading this, our immediate daily patterns may not be disrupted very much as we may not be the direct targets of the deconstruction touted by the new administration. The ripple effects will touch us all. We do not live in a vacuum of our own socio-economic status. We also know that our country and the world are deeply interwoven. Changes will continue apace.

More than ever, I am determined to continue to hold to the values that resonate with my integrity and support their implementation at any level in my own sphere- from my retirement community to the local town and college just across from our campus. We keep breathing, and loving, and giving our best. I wrote this RAP (rhythm and poetry) song during Covid and updated it to present for Kendal at Oberlin’s Winter Solstice program. These are the lyrics and am currently working with an inventive percussionist to accompany me. I’ll post that finished version when available. (I dressed up as Gaia for Halloween)

Hope Arising

by Judi Bachrach

Gaia, She hangs in some cosmic infinity.

Mother of us all She acquires some divinity.

Her salt tears are rising, She storms and She burns

With immutable laws that Her children must learn.

Chorus: (sung)

I’ve got to-

uplift, my heavy heart

Whenever I feel my world is falling apart.

Uplift my troubled mind

Give voice to all the love and all the light I can find.

The whole world is in chaos it has happened before

Poverty, tyranny, deadly plagues, and war-

Everything is shifting before our own eyes.

We’ve got to keep uplifting so that Hope can arise.

Chorus:

People used to taking need to learn they must give back.

We’ve got the wisdom and the will it is connection that we lack.

Lead by giving, lead by loving, lead by changing how you think.

Believe that change can happen even standing at the brink.

Chorus:

Gaia, She hangs in some cosmic infinity

Mother of us all she acquires some divinity

Her salt tears are rising, She storms and She burns

With immutable laws that Her children must learn.

I’ve got to-

uplift, my heavy heart

Whenever I feel my world is falling apart.

Uplift my troubled mind

Give voice to all the love and all the light I can find.

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October: Leaving the Garden

Northeast Ohio had a mid-level drought all summer. By the middle of September the trees had already started turning due to stress and acorns covered the ground under small oak tree near to a quiet spot where I like sit. The vernal pond has been a lush green field visited only by deer who scoot across the road from the woods.

This deer is only passing through just as we now only pass through the lovely, cultivated Courtyard Garden. In the garden the bench below is overhung with wisteria from a special cutting of the vine that survived the bomb in Hiroshima. Behind the bench is a wind chime with long tubes that keep ring-ing-ing in the fall breezes that are also passing through.

I am busily involved in another project with my creative photography partner, Rebecca. This time our focus is on water. She not only has photos of creatures living in and nourished by water from around the planet, but also exquisite pictures of water in patterns, frozen and misty, roaring African waterfalls, and captured in the white landscape of a single polar bear looking in her direction.

I have written about water in poems and songs for many years. My contributions to our program include offerings from my past albums as well as new songs I have written since coming to Kendal. Instead of water falling down mountains to the Hudson River where I grew up, I now live in the wetlands of drainage from Lake Erie. An indigenous speaker last year pointed out on a map what his people called The Great Black Swamp- which included northern land across the midwestern states below where the Great Lakes lie. He grinned at us as he said, “You know what I’m talking about.” As we have seven ponds created for drainage to create our campus, we laughed and assured him that we did.

Between coordinating slides with my poems and song lyrics on them, I am also tapping into the local talent to create song arrangements with a resident clarinet/sax player and a pianist player/arranger from the town of Oberlin. It is fun and challenging as my stamina is limited. I will also do a sitting-in my-wheelchair-dance to one of my pre-recorded songs. I treasure the opportunity as I cannot know how much longer I might be able to attempt this in the future.

I am fulfilled, ever grateful that I live in a place where I am cared for on every level. Shana Tova for those who celebrate Rosh Hashana. May we all find sweetness to hold alongside the political turmoil and our yearly tilt away from the sun as this year unfolds.

The Sea Walks (Kendal 1/4/2021)

The ocean

crawled out onto a sunny shore

over millennia

breathtaking

walking within warm skin.

Hold a body up

to an empty seashell.

Listen.











The brine of cerebral spinal fluid





washes your brain





2,000 gallons of blood gushes





daily through your heart.





Lymph river systems hitch rides,





surf your every move.















Billions of neurons flash





through chemical currents





molecular mermaids and mermen





partner the waves, choreographing





internal body ballets.










We return to those first waters





as tourists on beaches





beside rivers, ponds





diving into pools, gazing down into





sinkholes, sloshing through swamps-





pay homage.










All holding the sea of emergence





the flux of our beginning,





the ebb of our end.





We never forget





our eternal tides





still listening





to every drop.



	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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Septemeber
					


	

	

	

		






Morning Mist on Rock Pond by author





Yesterday’s sun was released through the early morning mist on every pond I passed. The chilly overnight autumn temperatures caused ghostly shapes and patterns to rise and swirl as the sun began to rise. Made visible by evaporation, subtle swoops and vortexes breezed above the waters. Sitting by one pond, my Polartec jacket zipped up to the neck, hands tucked into the ends of my sleeves, I drifted and dissipated along with the soft wet air we breathed- the fish, birds, the trees, the fields, and I. It is September.





In NY state where I grew up and raised my daughters, school always began the Wednesday after Labor Day. In Ohio, kids have already returned to school. My older daughter is on Sabbatical from this year’s teaching at her college, so the usual school related nostalgia of fall feels cut loose for me. I ate the last bite of summer with a fresh picked peach my friends gave me, and the perfectly ripe sweet corn from the holiday menu.





It is my birthday month. As a child, given that my birthday is around the fall solstice, I never knew if I would celebrate the occasion with a warm outside party or a chilly one based on indoor games. This year, I hope to celebrate with my daughter’s family and share my cake with my grandsons. I requested my son-in-law’s carob/apple/apricot/chocolate cake from a recipe he brought with him from Bosnia. It is fruity and dense without being too rich and drips with a dark chocolate coating. Being an excellent cook who loves international cuisine, I asked also for a Japanese dinner and was offered instead a Peruvian/Japanese meal. I did not know that was a possibility and eagerly agreed.





I asked for no physical presents as experiences are what I treasure these days. May your September bring you into fall with your own sweet desires to be fulfilled.





The following is a prose poem I read recently for a Poetry Potluck we hold at Kendal.

Lunch Lessons from a Finch





We both sat down for lunch. He flew directly to a middle perch on the birdfeeder with no competitors in sight.





He ducked his head inside for a seed, expertly cracked the shell, and swallowed the naked sunflower meat. Repeat. Repeat. Now and then he kindly dropped a whole seed for the ground feeders, mammals and birds alike. He paused.





He paused. Lifting his rosy head, he sang his own house finch song. Over and over, he trilled with abandon, before he returned to feed.





I paused with him. I set my fork down on my plate, already loaded for the next bite. His syrinx is located right next to his heart. If my larynx nestled up to my heart, what would I sing for my supper?





If my larynx nestled up to my heart, what would I sing for my supper?





The first response was tuneless gratitude. I was grateful for nature’s bounty and all the human hands that brought this meal to my table. Deeper still, awareness arose out loud to know that I have everything I need to be grateful.





I have everything I need to be grateful while millions have every reason in this world to be starving, desperate, and terrified. I sang my compassion for their suffering and the knowledge that to me, they are not alone, not even in the cruel death their bodies may endure.





They are not alone.





I picked up my fork up again, and slowly chewed the rice and vegetables with care. The finch flew away, and the rest of my meal tasted like heart honey.










Cosmos and Marigolds by author

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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August
					


	

	

	

		






8/7/24





8/7/24
The downdraft of last night’s storm
partnered a terrific tarantella with the trees.
The sky turned black, the wind 
howled in powerful gusts.
Then the slashing downpour 
we had hoped would happen
turning our brown lawns green again.
Others lost power but not where I live.






Had it been us years ago on the mountain
we would have been prepared to be off grid.
Five-gallon containers filled with fresh water, 
LED lanterns, a windup radio with a built-in phone charger,
a woodstove, a gas stove
that, lacking an electric spark, would light
with wooden matches, 
eating food from the fridge freezer first,
laying plenty of insulation over food in the chest freezer-
checking that all was well with the horses, sheep and chickens-
that was what you were born to manage.





As the days of the internet grew into necessity
we knew all the places in town that would be restored first.
Driving with our phones and computers we
connected to family, friends, and clients 
outside the library, at the edge of town
or behind certain homes on the side streets.






Today the morning broke partly sunny and calm. 
No damage that I could see when I got outside.
Tomorrow would have been our 54th wedding anniversary.
Today I dance a sedate waltz of memories
that sweetens my heart, and I imagine yours
to know that I am well and safe as are
our daughters and grandsons
in this violent stormy beautiful world 
we live in.

















	



	



		
			


		
			



	
		

			

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Red White and Blue
					


	

	

	

		











Red, White, and Blue





I am weaving flowers into my flag this year.





Flowers for beauty amidst the filthy pollution of violent words and deeds.





May they bring soft power to blunt the edges of our collective fears and rage.





Their blossoms need careful attention to avoid being overwhelmed by unlimited chaos.





Care-full balancing the elements of sun, rain, fertile earth, and clean air yields flower-full results over time we have been sadly wasting.





Rigid arsenals against their enemies never work. A good flower garden must adapt to changing circumstances, alert to all internal and external forces that thwart healthy growth.





The interconnectedness of any garden community cannot thrive if it is restricted to insistent monocultures that disregard the reality of seasons. It must celebrate the innate cycles of expansion and contraction for all beings in all circumstances that surround it.





No matter who our new head gardener will be, there is much work to be done in salvaging this garden flag gone wild.





I include yellow stars for every state of being, of living, of healing and the pursuit of happiness.










It is hard to believe that I arrived here the day after the fourth of July weekend six years ago. I remember being driven by my daughter and son-in-law through mountainous upstate New York, briefly through Pennsylvania and on into open flatlands of Ohio. My first glimpse of Lake Erie was through the haze of barbeque grilling smoke as we passed the park on its shore. I spent the night with my daughter at the Oberlin Hotel and the next day I walked onto Kendal’s campus for the first time.





Now Kendal is my home. I often use the term ‘widow shock’ to describe my own haze when I first arrived. Richard’s memorial was in March, and here I was in July, moving into a small but lovely ‘hospital room’ with my own bath. The Care Center rooms were indeed designed to be for residents during recovery post-surgery or from an illness before they returned to their own cottage or apartment on campus. To my surprise, by January 1st, I was chosen to live in an Assisted Living room down the hall. It is more like a studio apartment and larger and more spacious than the nun-like room I first thought of as mine.





My daughter and son-in-law (and now my young grandsons) have helped me over the years to make it my own bright yellow space. I am happy here. I grow geraniums that flower in the northwest light.