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

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.

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