Posted on by judibwriting · 7 Comments

March

I am coining a new phrase- SDD or Seasonal Disorientation Disorder. Since February 1st it has felt like spring here in Northeast Ohio. If it had been March or April, you would expect the yo-yo extremes of warm sunny days coaxing out the early flowers and returning songbirds followed by freezing nights and a few inches of snow. But it seems we have added another whole month to springtime. Now that it is March, there are already robins, nest builders, returning geese couples, early booming plants and benches that beckon you to sit a while in the warm sun. It seems wrong to cut winter short (unlike in Alaska where they had record snowfalls) and yet delight in wearing only a light sweater or jacket to walk and jog along clear paths.

We are fortunate that lovely weather is the result of climatic disruptions. Others around the country and the world watch droughts and floods and violent storms destroy their way of life, with the looming certainty that the usual order has forever been changed. I know I do my best to limit my climate unsustainable consumerism as an individual living in my community in America. But as an individual I don’t have much of an impact on the sweeping reforms necessary to ensure that my grandsons will have a safe planet to live on. But I can vote!

My spiritual practice stabilizes me in a big picture of humanity’s sojourn on Earth. There is nothing in the universe that does not expand and contract, passing through stasis points on either end. What remains constant is the source of creation itself, called by many names, accessed, and sought after by science and diverse paths, all leading to acknowledge our impermanence. I can live with that. I do live with that intimately as my body ages and declines in its own unique way.

Today I am grateful for mobility scooters and sunshine, friends and neighbors, nurses and physical therapists, and the joy of being alive to witness being one of eight billion people on earth. Consider that we are a very small percentage of the billions of beings that we share the planet with. Even the few tiny  ants that have begun to traverse the desert of my bathroom floor are part of my world each spring. Taking every moment that I have, just to be alive, is the joyful thing that I, as an individual, can do my best to inhabit every day.

Outside

I will go outside where pond-gazing is magnetic,

to spy on turtles rising from the mud of

gold and copper leaves tossed

like wishes into the autumn murk

caught frozen mid-decay

in ice mandalas sliding across the ballroom floor

released into black waters shimmering in

warm spring sunlight

rippled by today’s breeze,

by old thoughts dropped

into the dark brew.






The bounded certainty





of my room, weighted by shoulds,





maybes, papers, internet messages





hold a lingering whiff of





a delicious morning meditation





urging me out, get out, let go,





hand myself over





to the unseasonably early spring embrace.










Spacious skies invoke breathing,





geese preening, songbirds nesting,





stillness dissolving into silence.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
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February
					


	

	

	

		






February





Around mid-January I found myself turning teary while listening to the sad news or the occasional good news story on the radio, hearing just about any music, or seeing my dear elderly companions as they each navigate their days. I was teary when a retired nurse from my assisted living area recently returned for a day to fill an open space on the schedule. She is a very formal efficient sort of woman, and when I greeted her as I rolled past the nurse’s station in my wheelchair, she stepped out from behind her desk and came around to give me a hug. My friends and I were astonished at this display of affection. It touched me deeply and I saved shedding the tears sparkling in my eyes for when I returned to my room. I teared again up today when the sun shone bright after weeks of dreary cold weather. It was fifty degrees F on the first of February, and I went outside on my mobility scooter to enjoy the fresh air for the first time in a month. The above photo of melting ice on the pond is from that excursion. Joy undid me. It doesn’t take much. I, too, am melting.





I am not feeling sad, just very vulnerable. I know this emotional upwelling is because we are approaching Valentine’s Day, marking the sixth anniversary of my husband death. I try to remain available to whatever arises in me to mark this occasion. My daughters and I usually score some chocolate chip ice cream to honor his memory, just as we did when we served ice cream to the hundreds who attended his memorial. Grief is an unpredictable ongoing phenomenon. So far, this year is offering me a delightful mixture of nostalgia, memories, gratitude, and joy. I have written before about how grief is tied to gratitude. My heart was cracked wide open when Richard was dying. It appears that it has never again closed as tightly as before. This is what the touchstone of this anniversary is revealing to me. Losing him was his gift to me of a still opening heart.





Of course I miss him, and the intimacy of a partner who knew every fault I have and loved me anyway- the jokes we invented together when we were teenagers falling deeply in love- or co-parenting two cherished daughters- and the knowledge of how he would have adored his two grandsons had he lived to meet them. I embrace missing that Richard, the man who was my husband for almost fifty years. I also know how happy he would be that I live in a wonderful new home where I am supported at all levels of my being to thrive and live the last chapter of my life without his physical presence. His devoted life work provided me with the opportunity to live at Kendal at Oberlin and I am grateful for that alone every day.





May Valentine’s Day be not just a commercial reminder to buy cards, flowers, and chocolates, (there’s nothing wrong with any of those!) to show our love for others but also to serve as a deeper touchstone for sharing our love and light every day with all beings in our lives.





I have likely posted this song some years ago? but I post it here again with my voice of loving remembrance.





My February Song                   1/22/20                    by Judi Bachrach





February is the month you had to leave me





My heart is held within the hand of memories





March lions chase the cold





New lambs cry in the fold





Every year, Every year,





Every year creates new seasons for my life.










April drenches me with pouring rain and sun





May flowers born of hope rise up in everyone





June, July and August





Summer blesses each of us





Every year, Every Year,





Every year creates new seasons for my life.










September burns to colors of the molting Earth





October catches leaves for her great rebirth





November calls me home,





giving thanks for everyone





Every year, Every year,





Every year creates new seasons for my life.










December takes me into the darkest night





January starts a new year in returning light





February comes again,





with a day for love and then





Every year, Every Year,





Every Year creates new seasons for my life. 






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
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January
					


	

	

	

		






January





A new year. For thousands of years, we humans have been aware of our passage around the sun. It is a worldwide ritual acknowledgement of time. The cyclical nature of endings and beginnings has always been embodied in the natural world we inhabit. Mortality and renewal are sad and joyful in their turn. Denying the reality that we are embedded in this cycle seems ignorant and yet, our culture takes death so personally, that we employ all manner of denial to avoid the inevitable.





I include a piece I wrote last fall about attending to my body after death. I am so glad I did. It still makes me smile to think of that day. On this finally frigid morning, a bit of snow shower whitewashing clings to the grass outside my window. It has been overly warm until this week, and it feels like a relief to know we can have a real wintry day. Because I don’t have to drive anymore on icy roads, I simply appreciate the white stuff with a bit of nostalgia from when snow was a playground of delight. My cement garden frog looks a bit concerned because snow lingers between his eyes. I assure him the afternoon sun will rise above the rooftop soon enough and his serious stone visage will be restored- at least until the next snowfall. May this year bring joy, peace, and freedom to all.





My burial site 30 feet to the left. with my daughter and H





          “I am not courting death, but death is courting me”.





Yesterday, my older daughter and I went to choose my burial site and we were giddy with joy. My death is not imminent (I sincerely hope not, anyway) but I was thinking the other night, “I am not courting death, but death is courting me”. Death is courting all of us since the day we were born if you care to think about. Which most people do not. Our culture in general does its best not to embrace death as an essential aspect of life. I currently live in a wonderful CCRC (continuing care retirement community) in the Assisted Living area of Kendal at Oberlin and am surrounded by neighbors in their 80’s, 90’s, and two amazingly sharp people who are 103. So, yeah, living here I think about death as a regular occurrence treated with utmost care, respect, and support for all involved in the loss of their beloved.





I have had MS for over 50 years and since I was in my 30’s, I have been hanging out in the secondary progressive phase of MS, (for me, a slow but steady decline). I am now officially in the primary progressive stage (my decline is increasing monthly). I am 72 years old, and my new neurologist said to me the words I have heard many times before, “You don’t die of MS but because of complications with having MS.” I also am not going to get any stronger so if I wanted to locate my burial site, now was the time to do so.





I live in a body that is in chronic pain. The increasing inflammatory nerve messaging to my entire torso, legs and back, means that I am in a high-tech power wheelchair, for which I am very grateful. I definitely have down moments as I eliminate one activity after another from my life. Knowing that my young grandsons will never know the active grandmother I had thought to be, is maybe the hardest one to accept. I am part of their lives through FaceTime and carefully planned in person visits that I treasure. They and I make the most of our times together with the help of my persistent daughter making sure that her sons know her mother. My husband, her father, died in 2018, precipitating my move to this Ohio community from our 60-acre homestead in upstate NY. His ashes were scattered in a river we once loved.





Yesterday, my daughter loaded me and a small portable wheelchair into the car and drove me an hour and half away to the Foxfield Preserves. It is a designated section within a 650-acre wilderness center with 3,000 allocated sites for a green burial. When I heard this advertised on the radio a couple of years ago, I was delighted. Ohio being a conservative state, I never imagined I’d have this option. I was now ready to prepay and manage my burial so my family doesn’t have to deal with it later. It made me happy to think of being buried in a natural setting wrapped in a simple white shroud and placed directly into the soil. That is just what I wanted.





This was the day we were to choose my site. First off, it was a glorious day for fall foliage viewing. Cool nights suddenly turned muted brass into a full fanfare of color. Except for doctor visits and seeing my daughter’s family in a Cleveland neighborhood, I don’t get out much. We drove south and west into farm country. Large working farms spread out for miles. As we got closer to Wilmot, (known as The Amish Door) the town where the Wilderness Center was located, we saw the occasional Amish horse and buggy trotting along the highway. The last three horses my husband and I owned were Amish animals, two of them from Ohio. One was a gorgeous fellow we named Lucas. He loved pulling a fore cart along our upstate NY roads and that trot was his specialty. Seeing these horses was the first tug at my heart. My daughter and I both commented that had he lived, this was the sort of area where her Papa and I would have moved to.





When we arrived at the Wilderness Center, we informed the receptionist that we were here for the Preserves and to meet with H, our guide. We were told to take the elevator up to the observation deck as we were early, and the receptionist would come tell us when H was ready. This top floor was filled with nature scenes made of carved wood with painted displays for children (and me) to touch and climb in out of (not me, but my daughter and I immediately envisioned her boys in here). It was beautifully arranged information about the flora and fauna that the wilderness offered, with no plastics or breakable objects in sight. Going outside on the sunny deck provided an even stronger pull on my heart.





Now we could see that this whole wilderness area was surrounded by big rolling hills. We had passed signs for hiking trails on our way up to the information center and noticed two large solar panels over angled roofs below us in a parking spot. Looking around from on high, it was inhaling the hills that cinched it for me. I grew up in the Catskill Mountains of New York. So far, I had seen only the astonishing flatness of Ohio. This 180-degree panorama of rippling hilltops was balm to my flattened heart. I could feel what I call my ‘animal body’ sigh a huge gust of relief. This place felt like home to me. This place was my old home right here in my new home of Ohio.





Then we were summoned to meet H, and our tour of the Preserve began. She drove slowly in front of our car pointing out the three potential areas for my site. My impressions as we bumped along the grassy dirt tracks, was that the number 1 area was mostly wooded winding up to the top of a knoll. The number 2 area was partially wooded and partially winding down to the prairie, and the number 3 area was mostly a wide-open prairie field. When we stopped there, silence ruled all around punctuated only by birds whose field calls I did not recognize, and the calming drone of humming insects. No cars, no mechanical sounds- just acres and acres of wild Ohio. The sun, the molten colors, and finding an enchanted resting place for my body together with my daughter: all of it made us giddy with joy.





We chose a spot 30 feet off the driving track in the second area, on a ridge so you can look out beyond to the hills. I think you could maybe see down to the prairie below. I could not traverse it on foot, of course, but my daughter and our family will be the ones at my interment and if she said this was the place, then we agreed, this was the place. On our way back to the wilderness center building we met two women who asked H for help to locate their son’s burial spot in the woods. We waved her on to help them and met her back at her office. Such personal care and kindness and intimate knowledge of each burial further rooted the joy in my heart that here was the right place for me and for my family’s future visits.





We asked our guide questions, including requesting permission to bury a tiny pinch of my husband’s remaining ashes with me. She said, of course, and then advised us on various funeral homes who will take my body to hold overnight until the actual hole is dug after which my body will be driven back to the Preserve for interment. A memorial gathering will take place later at my retirement community. My community has always been very good at holding unique and moving memorials for my friends and neighbors and I know my family will have a good experience setting this up at Kendal when the time comes.





We signed the contract and agreed to the additional required donation that accompanies the arrangement. The idea of helping to maintain a small piece of wild Ohio is a lovely legacy for me to leave behind. Besides, as members of my family, my daughter’s family can come for free to hike, explore the wilderness area, or use the small observatory that had just sponsored a children’s astronomy weekend. I foresee that my grandsons will enjoy coming to Gramma Judi’s last physical home. The body of this land will always welcome them.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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December
					


	

	

	

		






shelf outside my room: Buddha’s Christmas










“Winter is a coming in…”





Spring has sprung,





Fall has fell,





Now it’s winter,





Cold as hell.





My mother would chant this to me every winter. Pondering this brought up the following random memories of winters with my single mom.





When my two older brothers and I got into the decrepit ’48 Chevy (some years I was elected to clamber through the open window because the front passenger door didn’t open anymore) she’d say,” We’re off in a cloud of…” whatever was happening. If we were going to the dentist, it was, “We’re off in a cloud of Novocain,” or in the winter, “off in a cloud of Santas…” or “ice skates, or sleds, or huskies, or squirrels…”





We lived on a short but steep hill in the Catskill mountains and never had much money to spend on cars or proper tires. In the winter, it was a daring adventure to see if Mom could gun the engine to get our heavy boat up the hill and into our sloping driveway. If it had slithered sideways blocking off the few neighbors above us, she’d reluctantly have to call somebody to pull the car back down the hill to park it discretely alongside the lower road. Otherwise, the vehicle threatened to remain there until next spring. 





  When headed precariously downhill, she commanded me to curl up into the space underneath the glove compartment. I huddled there as she inched her way down the slippery slope.It was a breathtaking experience. When I think about it, the car was built like a tank and it probably was a very safe place to stash me in case of an accident. As our mechanic used to say, while supplying my mother every two years with yet another ancient vehicle, “Nothin’ like iron outta Detroit.”





My mother was not very physically inclined, but she did appreciate walking and the beauty of the mountains, even in winter. One night, as I was muttering over my social studies book memorizing dates and battles, she came up behind me and slammed my book shut. “Hey,” I protested. “I have a test tomorrow.”





“No, you don’t. It’s going to be a snow day or at least a two-hour delay for school. Get your things on, we’re going outside.” Our elderly dog wisely declined to join us for the inclement weather.





I tugged on snow pants, my damp wooly coat, and buckled up my squeaky black galoshes. Covered by hat and mittens, we trudged off downhill into the night. It was snowing huge wet flakes and we listened to the soft hush gathering all around us. We didn’t talk much, united in the rhythm of our steps and the occasional sound of cars cautiously shushing along on the highway at the far end of our road. The temperature dropped, and hard snow started zinging against the totally white ground. By the time we reached the highway, we stared, astonished at the millions of flakes swirling thick in the green glow of the single streetlight. Mesmerized, my mom and I held hands gazing up into the dazzling moment.





To our horror, once in a while my brothers and I missed the school bus and mom had to take us there herself. Living in the country, the central school we attended was 45 minutes away. She was never dressed when she fed us breakfast, packed my lunch, (my brothers always paid 25 cents for theirs) and sent us off to the highway where the bus would stop to pick us up. We would have to walk back all the way up the hill after realizing we were too late, or it hadn’t been a two-hour delay, only an hour delay. We had been left behind. My mother would throw her winter coat on over her pajamas and tatty bathrobe and shove us in the car.





The race was on. If she could manage to overtake the bus as it stopped for pickup after pickup, she wouldn’t have to drive us all the way. If she did catch up, there she was in her nightclothes for everyone on the bus to see! If she had to drive us all the way, the whole school would see! To us kids it was horrifying. Probably nobody noticed, but we sure did.





Christmas was the perfect holiday for Mom to get excited about. My siblings and I were once enthusiastically recruited to make bell ornaments to hang on the tree. We made paper mache and molded it over lightbulbs with flared bottoms, wrapped them in aluminum foil, and topped them with ‘snow’ made out of soap crystals. Twisted pipe cleaners poked through for hooks. My brothers were not impressed and ditched the project before even one bell was finished. Undeterred, my mother and I carried on. When I later inherited the box of our childhood ornaments, there were still two sorry bells among the few surviving glass balls. My own children were also not impressed, and those bells no longer ring out Christmas cheer.





My single mom was a delightfully complicated and challenging mother all year long. I just unearthed something that I wrote on the first Christmas after she died of AIDS following a massive March blizzard.





Christmas Tree, 1993





I miss my mother. I look at this tree growing crookedly out of my living room floor, waiting for my children’s hands to tug each branch down with the weight of their joy, and it is now that I miss her.





For the first time, Mom, I do not flinch to remember your inappropriate childlike zeal with the Christmas trees of my childhood. Each year, your oversized emotions were squeezed into another lopsided evergreen we managed to haul through our woods, and each year, the tree was redeemed by your words, “This tree has……character!” Somehow, your determination to wreak magic would prevail, and that tree would shine proudly with all the handmade theatrical glory you craved.





From underneath it’s branches, the presents you gave and received carried too many words with too many loud exclamations. They clumsily unwrapped your own girlchild seeking love she had not found.





When the room was lighted only by the tree, when subdued expectations met the darkening sky, you always sang. Freed with the full throttled exuberance of each carol, your heart swelled out loud and strong. Your heart was made visible by your beautifully cultured soprano voice. Today, I can finally join my voice with yours, bringing peace to both our childish hearts. I like to believe we are all made welcome by the celebration of loving children.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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November Offerings
					


	

	

	

		










                                  Ellen Tobey Holme’s wall hanging in my room 





The Moment





The moment before power twisted your words, leading millions of victims astray.





The moment before rage pulled the trigger, killing and killing the innocent.





The moment before a bloody war is declared, endlessly recycling severance from reverence.




















Sifting through the rubble of a shattered home.





The cherubic silence of a traumatized child falling asleep.





The first green leaf appears in the charred forest.





Gathering the push before I birthed her.





The soft momentous gasp before he left his body.





The world does not pause with me when my heart is breaking open.





Perhaps it never will.




















A spring erupts from the side of the mountain, a source of hope running down to the sea.





I pause between one breath and the next that I may inhale the river.




















It has been a tough time for us all, no exceptions. I balance the news with this sketch I wrote- a fantasy based on the memory of a real child’s comment to her grandfather. I wish safety and love to all.





 10/23/23                                          Thanksful                                        Judi Bachrach





Vivian tugged at his sleeve. “Grampy. What are they talking ‘bout? I don’t like it when they talk ‘bout things I don’t understand.” She waved her little hand around the table., which was covered in half empty platters and bowls of wild turkey, gravy, fireplace roasted potatoes, pumpkin soup, dilly beans, chestnut cornbread stuffing, creamed onions, cranberry sauce, and winter garden salad. She had long since finished eating everything, but it looked like the grownups would never stop eating because they never stopped talking.





Grampy turned to look at his 2¾ year old granddaughter. Vivvy was very verbal and very bright for her age. She was the first grandchild and the only youngster present. Vivvy’s parents, who lived down the road, sat across from them and were pleased to have him be her minder for the duration of the meal. He was delighted to have the honor of his granddaughter’s close company. His younger son and lovely new wife, Laura, a progressive freelance journalist, sat next to Vivvy. Vivvy’s other, spunky widowed grandmother was here as were his ever-grumpy conservative brother and sister-in-law who were all sitting near his wife at the far end of the table.





“Vivvy, they are just talking about boring grownup things”, Grampy whispered.” Look at their faces. Do they look like they are talking about fun things you’d want to know? There’s lots to learn when you’re a child. ‘Course, I’m pretty old and I still don’t know why people say and do half the things they do.”





Vivvy carefully looked at everyone, fixing their names in her mind, one by one. Grammy had let her take clean turkey feathers from an old pitcher to set down at each person’s place at the table. Vivvy  had saved the shortest (but prettiest) feather for herself. “No, they don’t look happy. Why not, Grampy? Daddy said it is supposed to be a fun day. It’s…a…a.. hol-i-day. For giving thanks. They said thanks for nice things way b‘fore. Now they don’t look thanksful to me.”





“No, they don’t look thankful right now” Grampy agreed. It’s easy to forget to be thankful sometimes. It’s why we have a special day to remember. You said you were thankful for the pies you helped your mama make. We get to eat those later. What else are you thankful for?”





Tickling her feather under her chin, Vivvy screwed up her face to think. “I am thanksful for…you. I am thanksful you listen to me and talk to me. Can we ‘scuse us selves and go outside b‘fore ‘sert? I am also thanksful for the sunny day. But we needs our jacket.” She vigorously scrubbed her face and hands with the big white napkin.





Grampy stood up and cleared his throat to interrupt the intense conversation which had moved on to politics. Laura stopped to look up at him just before whatever she had been going to say. He suddenly found that he was very grateful to have a reason to take a break. Besides, he really didn’t need more stuffing, or another mug of hard cider. From the rug by the fire, three dog tails began wagging.





“Scuse us, everybody. Vivvy and I are going to take a little walk outside before dessert time. If anybody cares to join us, we’ll be going along down the field past the barn. Vivian said she didn’t know what y’all were talking about just now, but she thought you didn’t look very thanksful. She was thinking it was supposed to be a fun holiday. See you later.”  He winked at his wife as he and Vivvy walked past, all three dogs trotting close behind.





Grammy grinned at them. “Yes, well, you two go and have fun. Now, would anybody care for some more gravy? There’s plenty left on the stove.”

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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With Help From Family and Friends
					


	

	

	

		






Help From my Family and Friends





The first week of October here in northeast Ohio was in the 80’s. Summer weather! Though we had had a number of chilly September nights that rendered nighttime insects silent, the creatures surged back with enthusiastic trilling. Since yesterday, the thermometer and insect sounds slid back down again. There is a stiff breeze accompanying the cold front. Sweaters, corduroys, and snuggly jackets sprouted like mushrooms overnight. I had help to accomplish the annual Changing of the Clothes and my bureau is full because of bulkier materials. My closet is half empty with the hung blouses, skirts, and dresses tucked away in a storge bin under my plant shelf. Who knows what this year’s transition to winter will be like? Warmer than usual? Colder? More or less snow? What exactly is usual anyway? Not like what I remember when I was a child? Answer: wait and see.





The world goes on as it does. Horrible events explode, others weary in duration, unexpected discoveries and under-reported miracles of beauty, love and survival shine through the cracks of our human endeavors. I never could have imagined these ongoing challenges presented to me every day- the ones where I am asked to keep my heart open to witness constant violence and the unraveling of democracies all over the planet.





I thought only to hold my beloveds as they go through the trials of their ordinary lives. To be a planetary citizen who cultivates compassion and peace is to have long ago signed a contract to live in this age at this exact juncture of history. Not the one our parents lived in. Not as we remember how life used to be when we were children. Weather, politics, education, technology, science, or history are not the same for our grandchildren as it was for us. The challenges of my generation continue to expand even as our hearts want to contract in the darker face of it all.










Focusing close to home is where we can have an immediate impact and where we can see how to heal and be healed. Here in the northern hemisphere, the old tapestry colors of fall illuminate the beautiful necessity of letting go. Chlorophyl factories are not on strike but naturally shutting down their former production. Leaves detach without any makeup or clinging and fall to the ground in an ever faster choreographed ballet. Animals fatten up and prepare for slower metabolisms, dormancy, or migration without wondering for how long or how cold it will be. They trust they will adapt. As will we. As we must and as fast or slowly as we do.

















I am adapting to my new power wheelchair. Her name is Reina the Beast (a queen because she has a bit of purple metal on her fenders. She rises up so that seated, I can look a tall person in the eye. She reclines and unfolds like a hospital bed, and is designed for indoor or outdoor navigation with large middle wheels sporting thick cleats. (I haven’t yet found the control for her to pay my taxes, but I’ll keep looking.) I only use her inside for now as I do not wish to deal with the dirt her clever wheels would track into my one room home. As long as I can still transfer into my scooter which lives in the hall by my door, I will ride that into dawn and sunsets wearing my hat and fall jacket. I am losing mobility and strength, and Reina will help me maintain my independence for that much longer. Not with a “little bit of (but with a lot of) help from my friends.” Cue the Beatles…you do remember them?

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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September
					


	

	

	

		






                                                              Our woodland garden





September in Ohio





Looking out my window





everything is growing fervently





towards summer’s decline





grass, trees, bushes, flowers, heavy with





pods, cones, and berries





harboring the womb of new seeds





September morphing into fall





and the stinkbug clinging to the screen





wasp pushing off into the air





spider in her house glistening just there





they fill their days of living





dormant eggs left behind










Pieces of sky





framed by branches lofty and low





puzzle for the gods





each leaf soon to be fitted





in dazzling shades of death





will find its place





within the world frame





this boxed set of jigsaw billions





reaching up and out to the sun





as we roll by again and again










Today earthshine lit the face





of August’s waning blue moon





while the sun glared hot





sharing the same sky





my aged body birthing a new year





the moon, the sun, and I, illuminated





by one light, our evolving puzzle





a never ending wholeness





falling into place.





This is my birthday month, and both my younger daughter flying in from NY state and her older sister’s family will help me celebrate when the time comes. It is a challenge for someone with my declining mobility to navigate to my daughter’s home 45 minutes away with a portable wheelchair even with a room arranged to accommodate my need for rest and privacy. I want to keep accomplishing this expedition as long as I possibly can. But as MS continues to erode my nervous system, I am grateful to be able to make the trek at all.





I was hoping that being in my early 70’s would finally bring my chronological age closer to my body’s apparent age. Alas, my body zooms ahead in its losses to bring me in line with my fellow residents in this Assisted Living Area who range from their late 80’s into their 100’s. We all work with what we have and I am right at home with our trusty wheelchairs and rollators and scooters to get us where we need to be.





Weather everywhere no longer fits our tidy memories. Here in Ohio, August was quite chilly requiring sweatshirts every morning, and now this first week of September is hovering around 90. People complain of an abnormal amount of heat or cold or wet or drought-like conditions, as if we were able to control it. We have managed to create global warming, but not to create clear pathways to redirect our efforts towards solving the results of the disastrous impact on our shared planet.





Adapting to change inside and out requires an ongoing maturation of honoring desires within the reality of what is or is not possible. Acceptance is always the first and most difficult step towards undergoing real change. All twelve-step programs know this, as do all therapists of any stripe, as do all spiritual and religious teachings. It is hard to accept loss of any kind. Loss hurts. But using it as the doorway to lasting change brings a deep relief as we line up with what is in our power to choose going forward. I finally had to accept I needed an electric wheelchair and now only use my rollater in my room when I am able. Releasing any idea of this being ‘a defeat of my will against my struggling body’ only makes sense. Embracing the change is now a joy and results in a little more freedom even as I still cannot sit up in it for very long.





Acceptance of, and adapting to, change in all aspects of our daily and planetary citizen’s lives requires wisdom that we are sorely lacking. Creating a doorway leading to necessary change is my hope for us all.










Turkey vulture…..Here is a poem I wrote two weeks ago.





August Blue





I was outside under an August blue sky.





I say that,





knowing I cannot possibly





share with you the





irreplaceable blue of





photons interpreted by me.





I could not label this color





sapphire, lapis, prussian, or bird feather blue,





cerulean, cobalt or aegean.





Perhaps I could offer 





Shattering Blue,





edges nuanced in the glowing bowl above.










Blue that submerged my eyes





drenched the emerald-green grass,





dead-stopping a friend





biking along our path





to recite a terrific poem





summoned on her phone





recalling the end of summer’s





final swim into





“dark waters of the unknown.”










Beneath the summoning blue a neighbor





looking forward to regrouping in





September, Monday morning  





deep dives, sitting with companions,





an intimate yearning for true blue connections.










The wild untethered blue





encompassing me and





the deer and her fawn at the pond





the turkey vultures spiraling





with commanding grace





uplifted by sturdy blue.










The engulfing awe of





infinitely expansive blue exultation





inside my bounded human heart.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
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August
					


	

	

	

		






Northeast Ohio where I live has been spared most of the high temperatures burning across America and the world. We are fortunate in that regard. We have Lake Erie not far away and the water table is very high locally. Our campus is carefully and sustainably built on former wetlands. As a result, we have seven different ponds which support various waterfowl and other critters of the water loving variety.





I saw my first Green Heron the other day. It was sitting on a downed grayish log lying across the far end of the pond. I only saw through its perfectly blended camouflage because the head moved to reveal the long dagger sharp beak in profile. I wondered why the frogs were silent and why two small birds kept fluttering wildly over that log- a feeble attempt to foil the still predator among them. It was too far away to get a closeup with my phone camera but when I looked green herons up online, it was obvious that is who I saw to add to the blue and white ones that I have seen as more frequent visitors here.





In the middle of July we did have a short hot spell. That sent some songbirds to begin their migrations and the insects to begin their romancing all ahead of schedule. It is hard to believe there are still avid climate change deniers around Ohio or anywhere in the States these days. Anybody who loves the outdoors for sport, large- and small-scale agriculture, or play, has to know that former patterns of weather systems have changed significantly. People are too frightened to admit the evidence before them and are not given the information or the structured guidance as to how we can all dig in to make necessary painful changes that must happen if we are to adapt to this new world we share. Hence, we are watching a presidential denier accumulate indictments as a means of funding his reelection campaign.





Burning the Cicada Calendar: July, 2023





From high in the trees





cicadas launch summer sonics,





wave after wave of trilling clatter





filling silent holes migrant





songbirds leave behind.










To the day, this used to denote





Listening to their fanfare every year





August had crawled up the branches in our woods.





we promptly flipped the calendar.










But today it’s only mid-July





annual male cicadas rattle their tymbals





the drowning whir for females





subsumes frog bellows and leaf chatter.










Hot soil summoned adults out of the earth





out of synch, out of time,





the cycle used to be





nature’s careful calendar.










End of Summer Insects





By day cicadas





By night crickets and katydids





Where did summer go?










I cannot sustain my life by living in despair for the future. I am not sticking my head in the sand to declare everything is “gonna be OK”. Rather I look for joy wherever I can find it and my friends and I do not leave our conversations in the downward spiral that starts innocently enough with: “Did you hear the news that.. read the article in.. see the documentary on..” and before long we are shaking our heads at all the awful things happening in the world. We always stop ourselves, breathe, and share a personal story of friends and family to end on a positive note. It helps us to keep things in perspective. Much is out of our control, but in small significant ways we can contribute to remain balanced and uplift one another as best we can.





I wrote this for my own self to hum when the world gets me down. It has a simple melody but here are just the lyrics:





JOY





Have you laughed out loud with a friend today?





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy





Have felt contented and peaceful today?





 Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy










How can you sing of joy when





The world is so full of sorrow?





How can you sing of joy





When the world is so full of fear?





How can you sing a song of joy





When we’re losing our hope in tomorrow?





How can you sing a song of joy





When the future is so unclear?










If joy dries the tears on just one face





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy





If joy makes the world a more loving place





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy





If joy holds up hope through one endless night





Then joy, joy let’s sing of joy





If joy brings the world a heart full of light





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy










Have you had a moment of joy today?





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy





Have you shared a moment of joy today?





Then joy, joy, let’s sing of joy





August unfolds before us and may the end of this summer season bring you joy to affirm and sustain you and yours for wherever your life leads you next.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
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Independence and Freedom
					


	

	

	

		






Scooter used mostly for for outside- author





July 4th, 2023





It was another day to consider independence and freedom especially for America. Most of us remember that France was our ally. In fact, more Frenchman than American revolutionaries died at the Battle of Lexington. But Spain was aiding France against Britain and Britain was already stressed in in its trade relations with India. In other words, the battle for freedom from British rule directly or indirectly involved other countries as well. We were interdependent in order to achieve our independence and our newly founded nation thereafter required maintaining healthy relations with the world as it was then, just as it does now.





Freedom from Britain was just the beginning of illuminating just what our fledgling nation meant by freedom. Our constitution gives broad definitions concerning the freedom to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” We are well aware of the consequences of vagueness involved in stating that, “all men are created equal,” originally excluding other genders and races in this novel document written by wealthy privileged white men, themselves owners of slaves.





We are witnessing the wish to control the rapid and inevitable changes of our world, by turning back the clock to the formerly well-defined social values of the past. These values happen to favor white culture, especially white men. This endeavor to go backwards for security against change is bound to fail. From breaking the mold of gender identity, the dissolution of old cultural dominance, to the rapid advance of social media, and the much-vaunted progress in the use and potential uses of AI, it is impossible to halt the need for inclusivity to reweave a healthy national fabric. The false picture of demographically white America denies the resources of integrating the new faces, cultures, religions, and skills so essential for our collective future.





*******





From the national to the personal, I can say that I also am maintaining my independence by becoming more interdependent. My years of MS clearly now show up on my recent MRIs as a large accumulation of lesions in my brain and around my spine. I am losing more and more neurological messaging to my legs and back muscles. I am so very fortunate to turn to my OT and PTs right down the hall from me. My PTs agreed that it is time for me to have an electric wheelchair. I have been overusing my upper body to help me walk with my rollator. My arms and shoulders have been holding me up as my lower body cannot support me for very long. I am overusing them and they are always sore these days. I cannot afford to lose my ability to transfer myself in and out of a wheelchair which requires strong arms to accomplish.





This is the beginning of significant changes to my everyday life. I have been given a loaner electric chair to get used to a joystick maneuvering myself around my room. If only I had the experience of being a gamer! I saw my neurologist this week and he and I agreed that I would not be able to tolerate receiving the chemical infusions available to slow down the progression of my escalating MS lesions. Instead, I will soon begin using a subcutaneous injection of a drug called Kesimpta. It has a 66% chance of doing the job. I am relieved as I knew just leaving Kendal to have the infusions would take a huge toll on me, let alone the likelihood of my hyper reactive body incurring some nasty side effects.





This new drug may also give my body some new grief, but giving myself these injections is something I have done in the past and feel that I can easily stop if needed. After the first three weeks, the injections are once a month. The preloaded syringes will be mailed to me.





As to my personal freedom, even as my body declines, I am as happy, joyful, content, grateful – as I have ever been in my life. I am loving my life every day, even the days of more physical distress. I attribute this to years of supported work on myself, healing past wounds, and the consequential freedom to reframe my identity as I regain wholeness. That is Grace. I am embedded within a deeper consciousness that observes and cherishes my human journey. I feel my place in the impersonal/intimately personal universe is always evolving and I am beyond blessed to have this time in my life for the ensuing freedom of ongoing discovery. May we all find independence based on healthy interdependence. May we all find more and more freedom within while actively supporting more freedom for all Americans.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
					8 Comments
											


							
June Infusion
					


	

	

	

		






June Infusion





Because the weather is more unpredictable than ever, it reached into the high eighties from the end of May right into these first days of June. It’s not that unusual except the high temperatures lasted for over a week. Nobody could complain except for those who still hadn’t excavated their summer clothes. Flowers and insects and baby critters were welcomed into a benign and nurturing world, resplendent with abundance we humans enjoyed to the fullest.





The sky was often hazy from smoke originating from massive the Canadian forest fires. I once wrote a poem called When Your Smoke Gets in Our Skies. It was rather melancholy, so I will spare you, but I wrote it years ago when I still lived in upstate NY. Hotter, more destructive fires are predicted for our country as well in the future.





On a canoe trip my husband and I took years ago with a group in the northern Ontario wilderness, we had to camp one night on the banks of a huge burn. I will never forget our dash onshore to get a green bough smoke fire going to withstand the onslaught of blackflies that descended. We wasted no time setting up our tents, diving inside, and zipping them closed. The poor cook on duty that night sat within the wafting smoke to make our meal. He endured the loss of some flesh as the black flies were like kamikaze pilots flying off with chunks of the only mammal around. As we paddled past the burn in the morning, I saw miles and miles of blackened stumps like nothing I had ever witnessed before. I see it still in my mind’s eye.





Here in northeast Ohio, our wildlife is more pond oriented than the wolves, moose, otters, lynx, and bears we spied on that trip. I sat by a pond the other day and wrote this.





Spring Pond         5/1/23





Willow seeds swarm crazily





on white wings





inedible mayflies 





the fish aren’t fooled





competing bull frogs bellow





territorial seductions





native lupines and daisies





draw flittering insects on the shore





tiny willow tree dreams snagged





on my sunhat, my lap





have more hope for dry land





than those gradually sinking below





the rippling surface





where their mother tenderly





leans over swaying





her green hula skirts in the breeze





I am blessed that I am still able to go outside on my electric scooter to engage with our 110-acre campus as much as I can. My mobility is still declining, and I am pretty sure I will arrange for infusions with one of two drugs that do have some effect on halting the progress of secondary progressive MS. I am to see my new neurologist again in early July, so I will include a report on that next month. It took me a while until I was able to envision receiving poison in the name of healing into my body, but I will infuse the joy and hope of this season in preparation.