 Note to myself (and maybe you too) :
First, I am sorry. Also ashamed, appalled, again. And it’s too easy for people like me to turn away from the horrors of racial oppression, the insidious and the blatant, too easy to turn it off, go back to recipes and Jeopardy and feeling cooped up at home. But it’s our duty, if we value all that’s right and good, to read, to learn, to face the difficult, painful, eye-opening reality of our nation’s failures, our own failures. Read, watch, learn. The links below are a start. It’s all real and all important. You ARE part of this atrocity. Yes. It hurts. You CAN help to change it. Wake up. Pay attention. Listen. Care. (emotional, brilliant contemplations by Trevor Noah) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4amCfVbA_c&feature=youtu.be&list=PLeskMkEaHJYdaYLD69iNAadg3klIHZBW5&fbclid=IwAR0x7rpNKt9J8qiHLUwE0zwvpv0nd-C0v0d5GMfSo_YdCsFfd9Ss9y2uXnc (how would you feel if…?) https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10163796969735220&set=a.10150762667725220&type=3 https://www.zinnedproject.org/if-we-knew-our-history/burning-tulsa-the-legacy-of-black-dispossession/?fbclid=IwAR2e9LkyCYiA_3OVLQBHINWo2zLLjN6L6OLv3jTVaX2rCTarExOCd1t5q1g https://www.bostonglobe.com/2020/05/29/nation/its-bigger-than-buildings-american-is-burning/?event=event25&fbclid=IwAR2R17jFNN5VL0F5aE4j3amJLQ8-0lRqBsT5qk_pZmI97Yg_yGLtla40aB0 (please, look at these human beings) https://www.facebook.com/photo?fbid=4042822269091984&set=a.125066544200929 My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 278: 145 words, TOTAL = 46,801; 13,199 remaining
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 Mid-May, Mother’s Day eve, unexpected snow blankets a viral-scared, quarantined, socially-isolated central Maine. Fat flakes fall on greening grass. Later May, Memorial Day, three cedar waxwings alight on apple boughs, fuss and peck at clinging blooms. I watch white petals fall, a few more, a few more, another white snow. Wind blows blossoms from the trees, small blizzard of white flakes, and the green grass, white-flecked, grows taller. End of May, milestone day for the USA, 100,000 deaths they say, on the radio. 100,000 human souls slipped away, fallen. I watch waxwing-pecked petals fall, tiny white saucers spinning down. One of them stutters strangely, escapes the fray, flutters, flits sideways, rises. Not a petal, a white moth, emerging from the flurry’s camouflaged cover. From the 100,000 fallen, like magic, arises this transfiguration, tiny white life that rises up, up, into the sky. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 277: 142 words, TOTAL = 46,656; 13,344 remaining  I never imagined I’d get a tattoo, even after my daughter had decorated her limbs with several. I respected her choices, though I missed the beautiful clear skin of her body, the same way you miss your baby’s gummy smile when the first teeth come in. Then she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. During that first year Tessa struggled with this new burden she was obliged to carry into her new-blooming adulthood. One act of empowerment she chose was to get an MS-related tattoo. What would it be? MS is often invisible to outsiders, its effects subtle but profound, its prognosis a constant, looming unknown. “It’s my elephant in the room,” Tessa decided. Always there, rarely addressed. So she had a small, round elephant tattooed on her hip. That’s when I decided that I’d like an elephant tattoo, to honor my daughter’s spirit, in solidarity with her affirming toughness. And I knew exactly the elephant for the job. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 276: 158 words, TOTAL = 46,514; 13,486 remaining If you missed the story of “Her,” part I, here is a link to yesterday’s post: “One way to hold on to a lost friend”  I am a firm believer in the wisdom of childhood. Those boundary regions where magic and realism coexist hold something mysterious and important, worth revisiting, worth tapping into when we’re stuck at work, scrubbing potatoes, arguing with the insurance company. Children are attuned to something that we’d do well to remember – an openness to possibility, to trust, to the essence of things. It allows them to befriend with total, loving commitment – people, animals, bugs, inanimate objects. As children, we reside in a hopeful world. “Her” was a gray patchwork, male elephant, stuffed with old nylons. He lost two of his buttoned-on legs and had rose-colored needlework eyes that held mine lovingly whenever we talked. My old friend disappeared in the course of time, but I drew his picture for an artist, who tattooed Her on my leg, where he can’t get lost again. Tomorrow – Her’s origin story. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 275: 147 words, TOTAL = 46,356; 13,644 remaining  A recent Facebook comment exclaimed, “mortality sucks.” Yes. The fear of impending endings and loss is terrible. Yes. The pain of loss and grieving is excruciating. I don’t suppose there’s any way around that. Change can hurt, deeply, deeply. Also, mortality is a gift. We could not be here, existing, if mortality did not exist. If all the humans ever born before our time were still here, if all the plants and bugs and birds and animals that ever came to life were still living, there’d be no room, no resources left for us. We are here, thanks to mortality. Mortality is a gift to the future, to hope. Life will continue to evolve, grow, adapt, and change after us as it did before us. The trick is to embrace our little piece of the flow and love it as thoroughly as we can. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 274: 144 words, TOTAL = 46,209; 13,791 remaining  One spring morning I awake to see the rising sun’s rays illuminate the patient lap of an old bear named Michael, perched on our windowsill. Michael is Jonathan’s childhood bear, worn threadbare, squashed, a calm, kind expression about the eyes. He has a tiny zippered pocket in his back that little-boy Jonathan used to turn inside-out to make Michael fly, “his magic parachute.”
Jonathan and the bed creak audibly as he gets up for work. I hear him down the hall - splash water on face, pick out dress shirt, slacks. He’s back, sits on the edge of the bed to put on socks. Michael looks on quietly. I wonder how often Jonathan looks back. It’s good to have old friends nearby. It’s good to remember childhood and magic parachutes. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 273: 130 words, TOTAL = 46,065; 13,935 remaining  All this unaccustomed gardening time summons thoughts of my mother. I channel Mom as I plant red geraniums in big pots. I think of her while I browse Sprague’s nursery and bring home a rhododendron. My childhood home abounded in rhododendrons. Mom taught me to snap off the gone-by blooms. When I picture Mom in summer, she is tending roses, weeding, edging, digging, planting, or snipping blooms to arrange in vases around the house. Is this new affinity for gardening a sign of age or wistfulness? Jonathan says I also remind him of my dad, because my face gets so bright red and sweaty. Sometimes I wonder if that’s rain on my neck, but no, just me. There they both are – in me, with me, around me. It was a good Memorial Day. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 272: 133 words, TOTAL = 45,935; 14,065 remaining  They always dress in conservative black. Their background checks are pristine and their loyalty proven. When I’m out in the world, I’m reassured to turn around and see them there, quietly keeping track of my whereabouts, ready to take action if a threat is detected. 24/7 surveillance for minimal cost – room and board, healthcare, and daily appreciation through eye contact and hugs. Amazing deal. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 271: 64 words, TOTAL = 45,802; 14,198 remaining  I unloaded a mountain of garbage at the dump Thursday morning. Later I had an eye exam - chatted with the receptionist and the doc, picked out new frames. Then I went to Sam’s Club in search of toilet paper (TONS!). I’m not a shopping maven, but this felt so deliciously normal, other than the masks and the line to get in. I was with people; I browsed books, bought onesies for Fiona, a new shirt for Jonathan, leather gardening gloves for me, new bedsheets, mulch. Amazing! My elation was so great that even when a woman rammed her cart into my Achilles (“oh my God! I’m so sorry!), I waved cheerfully, “I’m okay! Totally fine!” and limped away. I’m interacting with strangers! Life is good! My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 270: 126 words, TOTAL = 45,738; 54,262 remaining  My driveway garden is weed free for the first time in fifteen years. I hate weeding, and do it in fits and starts, grudgingly, then I let the little weed piles dry up and get run over until they turn into dirt on the pavement. After a rain, when the roots pull out so nicely, I’ll persevere a little longer, but it hurts my back, my hamstrings ache, and I get irritated at all the broken off, rootless bits. Last night I drank two glasses of wine with dinner, which is all it takes to…elevate me, shall we say. Happily anaesthetized, I impulsively headed out into the cool evening air and resumed my attack on a giant, 8-year-old weedbed, the kind that requires a shovel and lots of sifting. It was awesome! Pain, frustration, blackflies, all felt pleasantly irrelevant. I floated above it all. In celebration I mulched today (sober), completing my COVID garden triumph. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 269: 155 words, TOTAL = 45,612; 14,388 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is an award-winning author, poet, and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her children, grandchildren, and granddogs. Archives
September 2024
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