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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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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?

Posted on by judibwriting · 7 Comments

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.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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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.

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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December
					


	

	

	

		
















The holiday season is now in full swing. It brings with it the smells and sounds and sights that are designed to engage our nostalgia and be good consumers, floating the economy despite inflation. I always think of Tom Leher’s satirical song that goes,” Angels we have heard on high, telling us… go out and Buy!”, and we do just that.





Fortunately, my grown daughters do not look on spending as a sign of love and my grandson who is three today, and his brother who turns one next week, do not get lavished with too many gifts between these celebrations and Christmas. The three-year-old has been to two parties in his life and he knew exactly how he wanted to host his party down to the balloons, the dragon theme, and what kind of cupcakes (chocolate, in case you were wondering). Unfortunately, both Mama and Tat tested themselves today for COVID and sure enough, it was not a cold after all.





So, my grandson learned a new word- postpone. His party is postponed. And that is life these days. I made it to a family gathering for Thanksgiving and we were all glad that the worst thing that happened was discovering the baby is allergic to cashews as they were part of the delicious vegan meatloaf he so enjoyed. My nephew is a doctor and has done plenty of pediatric work. His neighbor is a pharmacist and knew the only drugstore in town that would be open at 8:00pm on Thanksgiving night. Baby Benadryl syrup did the trick, and he was fine the next morning with no more hives or swollen cheeks and lips. What better time and place to have discovered his allergy with medical assessment and assurance at hand.





But all gatherings are subject to postponement as the various viruses (don’t forget the old fashioned common cold) show up from one day or one participant to the next. We make plans knowing how likely it is that it may not pan out. It has always been so, but the sickness factor is so much more frequent and more likely to occur than it used to be. We are learning to live and be wary, enjoy what we can when we can because tomorrow who knows if we can meet safely again. Testing and masking and distancing for those of who do not consider it a political act has become the norm. My niece said she and her family got lots of glares for being masked as they flew in from Colorado.





Still, it is holiday time, a gathering time of family and friends, and an appropriate time to invest in hope for peace in our troubled world. Finding peace within myself is a daily priority.





Willow’s Way                                    10/21/22                                        Judi Bachrach





Prevailing breezes from the east collide





with billowing gusts from the west





conflicting fronts halting





the slow glide of fallen leaves





across the pond





amassing by the bank










Crisp new recruits





arriving every moment





form a ragged line





amidst countermanding currents





caught in the middle





quivering detachments on alert










On shore a thousand





willow thin branches





still dressed in dry green leaves





lift up hallelujahs





bow down in reverence whirlwind





tendrils alive in sympathy





with those that fall










Trunk unmoved





anchored in the ground of being





our roots seek truth





renewed deep within





stark branches against the sky

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

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November
					


	

	

	

		

November





Like much of the northeast, here in Ohio, November has waltzed in on unusually warm weather. I am not complaining, mind you. I enjoy the still warm caress of the sun even as most of the trees are bare, inspiring two haikus.





Starlings          11/1/22





Starlings alighted





Like black leaves on bare branches





Murmuring migrants





Cloudy





Thick clouds break apart





Blue sky and sun always there





I am looking up





And of course, as we move towards election day in the U.S., things are not necessarily looking up. During an online prayer gathering that I sat in on this morning, I felt keenly how much of a group phenomenon our intense political divide has become. We humans have such an animal need to be part of a herd. The group that most reflects fear, the need to blame, and resulting hatred and rigidity draws in millions. The group who wishes to preserve a democratic vision, an educated adherence to reality, to benign cause and effect supporting our diverse population, draws in millions. I am not exempt. Freedom to choose which herd to cling to comes with the possibility of not getting what I deem is best, even if I think we might be headed over a cliff.





Fall is always poignant as the flora and fauna respond to the waning sunlight hours in our part of the world. The cycles of physical change and the inevitable losses are apparent all around us. Loss is tangible and inescapable. On that note, I highly recommend this CD just released by Kim Rosen and Jamie Sieber. Titled, Feast of Losses, Kim embodies famous poems addressing grief and gratitude exquisitely interwoven with music created by Jamie and friends. It is an hour of deep heart opening nourishment. *





This poem came to me as I sat by one of Kendal’s many ponds.





Willow’s Way                              10/21/22                                    Judi Bachrach





Prevailing breezes from the east





collide with billowing gusts from the west





conflicting fronts halt





the slow glide of fallen leaves





across the pond





amassing by the bank 










Crisp new recruits





arriving every moment





form a ragged line amid





countermanding currents





caught in the middle





quivering detachments on alert










On shore a thousand





willow thin branches





still dressed in dry green leaves





lift up hallelujah





bow down reverent whirlwind





resilient tendrils alive in sympathy





with those that fall










Trunk unmoved





anchored in the ground of being





our roots seek truth





renewed deep within





stark bare branches against the sky










* To purchase a Feast of Losses as a CD or Download, go to





https://jamisieber.com/feast-of-losses

	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting											


							
October
					


	

	

	

		

10/7/22   















Yesterday was probably one of the last warm and sunny days of fall. I stopped by a pond that once more held about 20 geese. They had found other waters over the summer after most of them had likely been born and raised here. Occasionally four of the largest peeled off two by two while the rest of the grown goslings stayed together. They all floated quietly, and I closed my eyes to float along with them. One stood up and flapped its wings setting off a round of honking, but they soon settled down again.





What a gentle time. Perhaps they are resting up for a long migration or perhaps they will overwinter right here. That is often the case, in these climate-changing days. They have no mate to locate and bond with, no nests to build, no territories to defend or goslings to tend. They just paddle and eat and float as the leaves around them are busy turning colors. I have seen squadrons of their species overhead night and day, one flock in V formation tucked in behind another. Ornithologists think they follow a combination of topography, magnetic fields, the sun and the stars to make their journeys. How amazing as they call down to us from the sky.





The nights have not yet been cold enough to bring on dramatic arboreal colors, though the burning bushes (euonymus alatus) are striking in appearance already. Dried yellow leaves from a few trees crackle beneath the wheels of my electric scooter. Otherwise, I am entranced by the subtle gold-hazed tapestries woven every day, soon to be cut and fall off from the plant looms that hold leaves and fading flowers. I found a black walnut tree on the Kendal property I hadn’t known about before. I couldn’t resist seeing a BOO! face in this one.










On Halloween in the assisted living area where I live, we will receive our booster COVID shots. I am thinking of a simple costume where I can still roll up my sleeve. I used to have so many bits of this and that to design one, but I shed all of them when I moved to Ohio. I will surely think of something for the occasion. Perhaps a fabricated corona crown would be in bad taste?





I am storing memories from my outdoor rides because the paved walkways where snow is shoveled regularly, can’t be cleared clean enough for my scooter wheels. My little electric engine isn’t up to any challenges against slippery conditions. I avoid crossing the grass or pebbled areas for that reason. Fortunately, the machine is light enough that other people moved me out of two such sticky situations in the past. Available to me is an enclosed garden courtyard that is kept well clear for accessing fresh air, and we are all aware the turtles in the small ornamental pond no longer greedily come up onto the rocks to be hand fed. They are getting ready to hibernate in the mud. I will also be turning inwards for the season.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
					7 Comments
											


							
September Joy
					


	

	

	

		

September Joy





I love the fall season. As a September baby, I remember planning birthday parties for both warm and sunny outdoor or chilly and rainy indoor activities. Around the fall equinox, it could go either way.





The cricket outside my window, trilling short police whistle blasts on a branch of the dawn redwood tree, summons no response on colder nights. Then last night, warm again, it received many return calls and the katydids in the woods beyond had no pause in their “Katy did, Katy didn’t “conversations.





This morning I wrote another haiku.





Arising thunder





Lightning flashes, rain falling





Close my small window





Rejoicing in berries, I have spied, white, red, purple, green and golden orange ones hanging on bushes and vines. Pine trees drop scaly cones, the cattails have turned into soft fluff, and the fallen mallow flowers have burst open their dark brown star pods. Plants leave us in so many diverse ways with their future regeneration assured. How and what will I leave when I go?





A hallway neighbor just turned one hundred and two today. Chronologically, I am the baby in this assisted living area though my neighbor is more physically mobile than I am. We all carry on with what we have as best we can.





Large swathes of the world mourn particular people, the state of politics, and the ongoing decimation of our planet. Within, I look for the root of all joy and delight in blueberries on my oatmeal, the first sip of hot Earl Grey tea, the song of Happy Birthday resonating from the dining area, the smell of petrichor in the newly wet soil, and the ability to share thoughts and words with you. If joy was not alive in the core of my being, how would I recognize joy in my quotidian life, given how much dire news is delivered to us every day?





Cultivating joy is not driven by my self-will. Curiosity, and an intention to focus on any small happiness that appears, helps to shift chronic pain to the background. These little reflections of pleasure emanate from a greater bliss within. I am learning to live through storms and birthdays with greater equanimity. I keep an LED tea light switched on all day, every day, on my bureau to remind myself that the light of joy is always burning.






	



	



		
			



	
		

			

				Posted on  by judibwriting									 · 
					4 Comments
											


							
August
					


	

	

	

		






buttonbush in bloom





End of Summer Insects





By day cicadas





By night crickets and katydids





Where did summer go?





Cattails





Thicket of cattails





A breeze rustles them to song





…Green, brown, gone to seed…










I have been adding to my pages of haikus whenever they strike me. At last, the nights are just chilly enough to hint at the coming fall. Early morning bird songs are already greatly diminished, and insects fill in the chorus. Flowers are luxuriating and lawnmowers growl whenever rain clouds disappear.





Where did my summer go? Well, it isn’t gone yet, and I am getting outside on my scooter to enjoy what is left of it. July was me in my room, recovering from a fractured sacrum, so the ability to sit up long enough for 30 minutes on my scooter is a real joy. Fresh air and my daily vitamin D are inhaled with the smell of ponds and woods that I pass by on the paved paths around Kendal. Having grown up in, and then Richard and I building our house in the forests of the Catskills, I am nostalgic for the smell of northeast trees. It smells different here in Ohio, and I miss lying on the ground feeling tree roots entwining beneath me and walking on my own two feet next to a mountain stream.















There is a covered walkway here, a wooden bridge that connects the perimeter road around Kendal to a pathway that leads into the main building. It cuts through a patch of woods before it crosses a swampy vernal pond surrounded by buttonbushes. (see photo above) I often pause my scooter and sit on the bridge within the shaded leafy woodsy area that lies beyond the side rail fencing. I turn off my electric motor and breathe. Sometimes there is surprise- the forest floor hops away as a tiny bunny, a fawn lies in its mottled nest, a woodpecker drills above my head. Or I hear the call of “Birdie, birdie, birdie.”















Convocation of Cardinals   8/1/22





Three male cardinals





Pecking on the forest floor





Know the pope is ill?





I move on towards another larger pond and the stress of our world softens in the wide expanse of sky and water. Allowing my peripheral vision to encompass the big picture reminds me that healing is possible, probable, when given the chance.





This is also the month of my 52nd wedding anniversary. Hard to remember being 18 years old and entering into marriage. What it meant then, what it means now- I am still learning from all the years of materializing partnership, parenting, and beyond into the growth as the widow I now am. Gratitude for it all.