Caught saying I hope to be like Cessaly in old age
sweet guileless cheerful open affectionate Cessaly
taking no offense when offense is given
erecting no walls against hurtful arrows flung
offering her open heart again and again
I realize I am nothing like that now.
Can one evolve so dramatically in old age?
I think not. Maybe next time around.
As Fate would finally have it after all the years
each turned their heads just in the nick
to see the other passing, remarking later
that had one or the other not turned
had she paused at the shoe store windows as usual
had he bought his ticket a little more quickly
had he strolled on in, eager to find his place
had either been diverted for even a few seconds
the convergence would not have happened
and none the wiser, they’d each have had
their evenings swim on in the usual way
nothing to remark on or puzzle over
the whole tenor of the remains of that day,
the following morning, the rest of their lives
untouched by Chance.
But of course, Fate did have it
and that was that.
Rain cascades over our soggy town
as if from God’s overfull gutter
and all I can think is his roof
must be leaking, too.
Raised Catholic I can’t help
but say his not hers, him not her,
cannot help picturing an old man
white of beard, a length of thin white hair,
in this case soaked through, a drop
hanging from his Roman nose
all because of a divine experiment
gone awry, humans left to their own devices
and now no way to stop the flood.
The rain that refused to grace us
last summer now will not let up
on point of pride and God himself,
hard pressed to keep a civil tongue
in his head, grumbles and roars
throughout the heavens.
What if one began again
regrouped
reconnoitered
recharted the way?
One could.
There are maps, compasses, helpful strangers,
rest stops, cheerful old salty dogs full of advice.
What if one did?
It is said as you spend your days
so you’ve spent a life.
So what shall it be?
Pennies tossed at trifles
or sums invested in what matters?
The book you planned to write
pile of paintings
trip to France
sonatas of Beethoven
garden overflowing
wrongs put right
catalog of birds
anatomy of stars
children nourished
loves cherished
problems solved.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”
Judging by the title of this page and the content, it would seem that I have had no thoughts since February, or at least none worth publishing. I will try to do better in the future. Anyway . . .
I was just sitting out on my narrow deck watching the birds with my sweet black poodle, Miles, reflecting on his beautiful temperament, which even as dogs go, with their loving ways, is exceptional, and I said to him, “You have a beautiful soul, Miles.” And then it suddenly dawned on me that I, too, must have a beautiful soul, as must every human, though we are encumbered by our various personality traits and flaws and peccadillos, so that we stumble and falter, hurt each other and ourselves, hide our own perfection with ego and striving for love and recognition (love), and I realized that all the things I don’t like about myself are really nothing to do with my soul, which really is most likely just as light and pure as Miles’ unencumbered one. Mine is and everybody else’s, too. Whew! If I could just keep that in my brain all the time, from here on out . . .
Six years ago today I had a terrible car wreck that broke five vertebrae in my neck and back. Six years ago today I could easily have been paralyzed but was not. So today is my lucky 13th.
I have often called it my Lucky Accident, as it left me feeling lucky for what did not happen and grateful for all the things that did happen, following it. I was lucky in that my son was driving my car behind the car I was driving and was able to call for help. I was lucky in that chunks of loose bone were there, right next to my spinal cord and I had no paralysis.
I was and always will be immensely grateful for the love and support poured on me by family and friends (and even strangers!) following the accident. I am grateful for the full use of my limbs and for all the joy that affords–the ability to tear paper and make art, to type words into a computer, walk through the woods with my dogs and climb hills and drive a car. And the freedom to dance!
Bad things happen. People die. We lose people and animals we love. We lose abilities and freedoms, jobs, things, even houses.
But we receive gifts, too. And the important question is: What are you grateful for? How are you lucky? Any way you slice it, if you’re alive right now, most likely you’re lucky in many ways. The trick is noticing.
My own grief so sharp for children I don’t know
whose parents I’ve never seen, never met.
What to do with it, where to place it, how
to dislodge it, crouching in some tight corner,
from my body? It will not be removed.
I wander directionless, hungry like everyone
for the why as if knowing why would somehow soothe,
knowing it won’t and knowing too that there is no why.
A pall has settled over us all and I do not know how
or why a wise man might say to this
I don’t mind what happens
as if all that might happen is
a poorly timed thunderstorm, flat tire,
cancelled flight and not, for example,
a life cancelled or twenty or twenty seven.
Rufus looks up adoringly from
where he lies curled up against the pillow
the perfect little sweetheart of a dog.
Who would guess that at any given moment
a hapless passerby down our street would
elicit a firestorm of barking, growling, racing
in circles, standing on hind legs on the arm
of the couch to ascertain they have gone
by as they should, without pause, without
breaking and entering, without attempting
murder or mayhem against Mother, Brother, Miles?
Lazy lazy lazy
the getting out time later and later
the lure of pajamas stronger and stronger
ever pull the soft covers at my shoulders
crying Stay! Stay! like a lover
always wanting me wanting more.
Just a few more minutes
just one more hour . . .
Stay.