Good Grief

September 9, 2020. Two weeks now since my son’s death. He was here the seven weeks prior, seldom leaving the house except for a daily walk around the block. The Labrador and two cats blinked at furniture rearrangements and accepted my son’s desire to be left unlicked, unrubbed. That said, he spent hours observing the canine/feline maneuvers and interactions. It was soon clear they were meditative entertainment through long hours of “just sitting” in the living room. I’d peek at him from behind my computer screen … or gaze at him from my rocking chair … grateful for the nonverbal companionship he enjoyed. Pets don’t ask questions.

Labrador and calico have acclimated, but I keep finding the ginger cat prowling the now-empty room we turned into his bedroom and sitting on the doorstep – signs of searching: where’d he go? For seven weeks his energy filled these rooms, and that remains. I sense a smile of sorts penetrating the space, his pleasure that this cat is seeking him. Perhaps he speaks to her in ways I cannot hear – perhaps they’re engaged in an adventure game. So much I cannot understand.

Because It Feels So Good!

July 27, 2020.  Following my prior post (also on personal encounter with creativity)  I’m  reusing the image as it perfectly suits!   I stumbled onto both poems while clearing clutter … on two separate occasions.  Prior poem is repeated below this additional poem from same era.  (I’ve no clue which was written first!  Nor what may emerge from next decluttering urge.)

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Referenced poems:

Robert Okaji’s Dry Well @ https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/59487473/posts/10774

Ken Gierke’s Deer Enclosure @ https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/66499778/posts/23176

Lured Between Lines

Wednesday, July 15, 2020.  Recently, clearing clutter, I stumbled on a handwritten poem clearly written back in my Old Normal: mornings wandering through poems on WordPress, evenings lost in yet another jigsaw puzzle – both meditative practices, both prone to spark poems. Usually such poems go quickly into the computer; some connect to photos I’ve taken (or decide to take after writing); and some of those arrive here.

I’ve not posted in a while. Life got very complicated, and will continue in that vein for a while. My son was taken to ER in Minnesota (where he’s lived a couple of years) and ended up having brain surgery: glioblastoma stage 4. Devastating. Since, I’ve been to Minnesota, packed up my son and his things, and brought him here for what lifespan remains.

I am bit by bit turning back to meditative time-for-me (which benefits everyone under this roof!) and this poem has me blogging again. This collage merges imagery from the referenced posts with my own photo of lines in the sky.

These poems are well worth reading (again, if you already follow the poets):

Robert Okaji’s Dry Well @ https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/59487473/posts/10774

Ken Gierke’s Deer Enclosure @ https://wordpress.com/read/blogs/66499778/posts/23176

 

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Odd Hours, Odd Moments

May 9, 2020.  COVID-19 makes for odd times, the new normal ever evolving.  I feel my sense of time (days, hours) slipping further and further from the forefront of thoughts and actions.  I’ve begun putting routine tasks on my calendar, but then I forget to open it, and oops!  Two days late dosing the pets with monthly heart-worm preventive.   This poem was written in those hours that challenge my dating the page:  is it still yesterday or already tomorrow?  I had great fun creating the collage, though difficult to choose which of the 40 photos taken of our first 2020 echinopsis cactus bloom.  So many petals, so many angles, so intriguing to steadily observe, wishing I could slip between  petals for a snooze.     

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Spinning

April 29, 2020.  Yesterday (another day isolating at home) included a nap, and an awakening that stirred up a poem.   This is NOT a black&white image of my blue bedroom – somehow afternoon sunlight shifted perspectives right out of color ranges –  for my eyes, and for the phone camera synchronistically beside me (I don’t usually nap with  phone!).  I’ve added an icon to depict inner spin with Uncertainty.

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Spectacle

April 16, 2020.  I saw the alert of an unusual alignment of the moon with respect to Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter.  Wee hours of the morning, as moon is waning thus rising later, later each night. Clouds precluded photos the first two tries, but this morning at 3:00am the skies were clear.  Whoopee!  Then ooops … come back in an hour after the moon is above the trees.  Still, I took one cluttered shot.  (I did go back an hour later for uncluttered pics.  None nearly as interesting, though.)

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Curious Endorsement

March 26, 2020.  We humans do well to pay attention to wisdom beyond our own, channeled perhaps, direct perhaps, intuited probably.  Some questioning (especially of the disparate advice regarding the COVID-19 influence) is inevitable.

Snow Sez is one of my favorite comics, and I have been distressed at his absence this past week.  He was just gathering wisdom, it seems … delivered today.  I took it immediately to my resident “seer” and she gave a nod.  (But note: she continues cleaning her paws in traditional feline fastidious ways.)

(My mother would be 102 today … I sense her nudging me to lighten up.)

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Aging Model

March 13, 2020.  Today the governor declared Texas a disaster area.  (No doubt others before have deemed Texas a disaster in some vein … this official designation stems from COVID-19 … health and economic issues.)  We are headed into Spring Break, so my teacher husband will be off work next week; likely the week after that; unknown how long the panic and the virus causing the panic will prevail.  I fit into an age bracket considered more vulnerable to this invasive virus, though I do not feel old (apart from several joints that ache). Difficult to believe this virus could feel any worse than my severe reaction to Shingrix back in November! Anticipating my 2nd Shingrix coming in April, I choose to remain optimistic that I will make it through that and this disaster.  I expect to be reflecting a year from now on lessons learned while moving blindly, unsure what I’ll bump into next (shelves empty of essentials … canceled events counted on … local businesses shutting down) yet comforted by others sharing this not-knowing.

Last August, I sat for several days with an old lady named Bella.  Bella is blind.  Bella is quite old for a cat.  Bella keeps purring.  Bella taught me a thing or two.  This poem, written with Bella, was subsequently accepted for the 18th annual Story Circle Network anthology: Real Women Write: Growing / Older, Susan Schoch, Editor —   https://www.amazon.com/dp/0979532957 — paperback & e-book

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