The Blessing of Invisibility

I don't believe anyone is reading these blog posts, which you would think would be discouraging, but instead seems to give me a sense of license and liberation. 

What does it matter what I write? It does not. But what does matter, to me, is that I write something. Almost anything. It's an exercise that improves the quality of my life, especially if done daily to develop the habit and the writing "muscle." I could write about the difficulty day I had at work, and even go into some detail in the interest of practicing my narrative skills, but I don't have to, so I won't. And the truth is that I don't even want to give it that much more time or energy. The workday was tough. I might even have shed a tear or two. It's over. I learned from it. Ça suffit. 

Spring Cleaning 2021

For decades, I've stored paintings, drawings, cards & stories by the kids up in our attic. This includes approximately a hundred main lesson books, which are the beautiful artifacts that parents of Waldorf students must agonize over whether to keep or toss. Main lesson books are not just mimeographed pages of multiplication problems or thin lined paper with a column of penciled spelling words. They are colorful, artful compilations of a several weeks of work, complete with titles and decorative borders, and as such, they're a little tougher to toss. For me, anyway. (Here's a link to a video showing a 3rd grade main lesson book, for the curious.)

Right now our living room looks like a Waldorf school closet threw up in it. I have pulled down boxes and bags of those paintings, drawings, comics, stories and heavy colorful main lesson books so I can go through them and winnow. Whatever I keep, I'll likely be keeping for myself, because the kids care less than I do, being unsentimental or still scarred by their education or maybe a little of both. Like so much else in this down-sizing project, it will look worse before it gets better. But I think I already feel a bit lighter, knowing all that tonnage of paper is not over my head. And I'm falling in love with my kids' creativity and sense of humor all over again as I start this process. I certainly won't keep everything. But I'll keep enough to relive their childhood now and then with little souvenirs. I am working to kick the habit, but I'm still a bit of a sucker for ephemera. 

Easter Monday

 And oh, that's right. Yesterday was Easter, and I didn't even mention that in my blog. Beekeeping and poetry trumps all, I suppose. But I rose early to take Tango on his walk and be back in time to make a feast and hide candy, although in the end, N. wasn't feeling well and she and A. didn't come over until the afternoon.

So we had all those Welsh cakes (gluten-free and otherwise) and popovers (gluteny) and bacon, and eggs, and cantaloupe and a tiny bowl of hash-browns for just three of us.  And Mr. Darcy, overseeing the table. Just in case. The orchid in the photo is on its second round of blooms since I bought it. I'm always so pleased when I manage to get an orchid to re-bloom. But an even more amazing feat is the poinsettia that S. has kept alive and blooming since Christmas. I've often said that poinsettias are an exercise in consumerism, futility and guilt. You buy them, you try to keep them alive, and they die. But she has proven me wrong. Some day when she moves out, she'll take approximately 30 houseplants with her, including blooming venus fly traps and propagating philodendra and spider ferns. I'll keep the orchid.

Beekeeper's Veil and Poet's Hat

 (A duplicate of my Practical Poet blog post...)

Today I went to a backyard on the other side of town to try to catch a bee swarm that had originated from a beekeeper's hive. Alas, the bees were twenty to twenty-five feet up in a tree, and even my extendable painter's ladder plus extendable painter's pole and attached bottomless 5 gallon water bottle provided insufficient reach. 

Also, there were power lines involved. 

As I said to the beekeeper, I am passionate, but I'm also sensible. 

He's a librarian (married to another librarian) and their children went to school with ours. We know each other, but not well. So I was touched that he remembered that I write poetry (!) and asked me how it was going. I gave him a brief update, and he shared that tomorrow night, he had scheduled a virtual poetry event with Jane Hirshfield and Lynn Ungar at the Benicia Public Library. I wish I could "go" to that reading. Or to the Rivertown Poets reading with Terry Ehret and Phyllis Klein. Monday nights are good for poetry. Sometimes I think about requesting a change in my work schedule, just to catch some of those opportunities.

Accidental Beekeeper Selfie from a few years ago...

Day 3 of Year 2 of Blogging through April

I am already feeling slightly anxious about my commitment to blog (in two blogs) and submit poems daily this month. Will I make it? Almost certainly, having announced it. I'm too proud and stubborn not to. But whether I'll have anything interesting to say is another matter.

Today, I added a couple hundred more books to my Libib.com inventory, as I boxed things up to put them in storage. For now. So many were 1970s paperback science fiction books, and it reminded me how when D. and I were first married, we realized that we had tons of duplicate titles in our individual collections. That seemed to bode well, and today, I thought that most of the books would probably still interest both of us, if I had the time and he had the inclination to read at all. But I love the idea of re-reading some of them in my retirement someday, especially because many are quick and light-weight, easy reads that would probably feel like visiting old friends. 

So basically, I put away a rainy day in two blue bins. Several more to go. Below is a sampling of those 200 titles, which does not include the many Arthurian books, Gillian Bradshaw, L'Engle, Connie Willis, C.S. Lewis, et. al.

         

Re-grout shower: Check!

Here is what I wrote in my poetry blog, for the reader who may not follow that one, or want to read both:  

I have been trying to keep an ongoing file of daily poetry "starts" or "automatic writing," - what the late (and blessed) Marvin Bell would call a scroll. The idea is to write daily, ideally in the morning before the mind is truly awake and making trouble by remembering bills to pay or emails to answer. As I've said before, for me the magical time is between the first and second cup of coffee. 

But I confess that some days, my entries are retro-active - notes made a day later - and they reflect the other things in life that I have done instead of writing. 

Thus there are entries like, "The poetry of shelving books," "The poetry of weeding," or (especially lately) "The poetry of grouting." (Closely tied to "The poetry of an aching trapezius muscle.")

(Image from this random grout-related website)

It may be inaccurate to say that these daily activities are poetry. Meditation, perhaps. But poetry? 

No, it's more likely that there are poems that find their genesis or impetus in chopping wood and carrying water. At least, in my case, this is true. I do not write poems of passion that describe the details of a lover's body, or poems that call out injustices and inequity. When I'm not writing about Wales or the Welsh language, or beekeeping, I am usually writing about domesticity and the tasks that make up my day. (Actually, beekeeping is one such task.) I don't feel compelled to change that m.o., at the moment. But I do, always, always, always feel the need to write better, clearer and stronger. I want to engage language in a fresh and breathtaking way, to see the world clearly and then give it back to itself. Today: the poetry of trying to talk about poetry. Hmm. Trying for metta. Achieving meta. 

The kids - daughters, son-in-law - are watching The Road to El Dorado in the next room. Last week, it was Anastasia. The week before, Hercules. They buy pizza and a growler for those who are not pregnant and can therefore drink, and they re-live their childhood memories and sing along with the old songs. It's lovely. Sometimes raucous, but lovely all the same. Tonight they let N. decide on the pizza toppings, and she's clearly under the influence of an unborn child who likes to experiment with unique flavor combinations. 

I think I am going to rub some ointment on my aching upper back and then perhaps I'll join them. 

Shelter-in-Place Day 380: National Poetry Month, Again

Spring is here, shouting itself all over the yard with its long grass and sprouting weeds and blossoms: a blanket of oxalis and a new line of daffodils. The lilacs are coming, and the roses, and the nigella and buddleia. And it is National Poetry Month.

And because I am a sucker for a self-inflicted dare and felt so pleased (read: smugly satisfied) about it last year, I am going to try again to blog daily and submit poems daily this April. 

Day One. So far, so good.

So much has happened since February, I could fill a screen with the updates. But I shall parcel out the news a bit at a time. The highlights in no particular order: the dog continues to do very well indeed, in defiance of his cancer diagnosis; we are still hoping to find a "house in the country" that we can afford without leaving the area;  local libraries are not quite yet open to the public; the kids are well and happy; the grandchild-to-be is active and growing; D. and I have had our first vaccine shots. 

I have Easter weekend off, and shall slide back in to these daily posts with the time it affords me, so that by Monday, when I'm back at work, I will have set the necessary precedent.

Shelter-in-Place Day 308, Inauguration Day

I have just watched a recording of Amanda Gorman delivering her poem at Joseph R. Biden's Inauguration earlier today. If I wasn't already exceedingly happy about today's events, this would have been enough.

AP Photo / Patrick Semansky, Pool

Even though white supremacy and hate and conspiracy theories and COVID-19 and its mutations have not disappeared, even though the country is still divided on many issues, for the first time in four years, I am hopeful. And for possibly the first time ever, this morning, listening to the 46th President's Inaugural address,  I felt something like patriotism -  a pride in what being American might mean, if only we truly do face the ways we have failed and fallen short, and step into the best that we can be.

These are strange times. In the country, a huge change on the heels of so much tension. At work, disagreements over how and when to reopen to the public. At home, life-changing events all around me: the dog's cancer; N and A's new marriage, new apartment, the baby's coming arrival; S. deciding to move out, if/when she gets her license, D.'s attention because of the model; and the concrete, real, exciting steps we're taking toward a house in the country. All at once. Because, sometimes that how it happens. 

But today, Biden signed executive orders to start the undoing of some of the horrible damage wrought by his predecessor. And I am so very, very grateful. That, and poetry, in the news everywhere you look. Thank you, Amanda Gorman. 

Shelter-in-Place Day 289, or thereabouts. New Year's Day

If I've done my math correctly, we're nearly 300 days into an order to remain at home as much as possible, avoid eating in restaurants or gathering in groups. We are still wearing face masks in public and in the workplace. Schools have switched to remote learning. Visitors aren't allowed at nursing homes. Hospitals are at capacity in parts of the country, and according to the Johns Hopkins site, there are currently 83,689,541 cases of COVID-19 reported, with 1,822,467 deaths (346,043 in the US). A new, more contagious, strain, noted previously in Britain, has now been reported in California and Colorado.

Before it finished, 2020 also saw the death of two wonderful and wise men (both lost to cancer): Marvin Bell and Barry Lopez. And just a couple of weeks ago, we learned that our beloved Tango, nearly 12 years old, has bone cancer, and is not a good candidate for surgery+chemo and radiation. We are spoiling him and telling him how much we love him and how wonderful he is for as long as we have with him (days? weeks? months? We don't know.) I lost one hive a couple of months ago and the other a couple of weeks ago, and so for the the first time in four years, I am hive-less, but that is nothing to the emptiness we know will arrive when Tango leaves us.

And although none of the above has changed since midnight, we were very happy to say good-bye to 2020 and hello to 2021.

In other news: Biden has been elected. Trump is still acting out. But in theory, in nineteen days, a new President and Vice President will take office, and they are likely to behave very differently from the current, soon-to-be former, POTUS. 

Jupiter and Saturn just appeared in a Great Conjunction in the night sky; I wanted to see it in person, with our little telescope (why else have it if not for such opportunities, at the least?), but I didn't manage to get clear of Christmas lights and fog at the right time of night to view this thing that only happens in this way every several hundred years.

We have refinanced our house and are now in a position to do some home improvement in preparation for a move to the country. A little land and a shop are the main requirements, but we still have a lot of work to do to get there. It's daunting and exciting and stressful, and we have moments of overwhelm at the mere thought of all that has to happen for this next step in our lives. But as we often say, quoting Anne Lamott, "bird by bird." 

More important than any of the other updates, however, is the news that N. and A. were married by their beloved mentor in NJ and are expecting a baby boy in the summer. They both have jobs, and move into an apartment this coming weekend. 

We are in a time of many changes, and (especially after last night's excessive snacking of junk food, wine consumption and Cards Against Humanity binge-session with the kids), I know it will be especially important for me to continue to do the things that keep me well: drinking water, eating healthy fresh whole foods, the yoga/tabata workouts, reading and writing. Hence this entry. I don't know that this blog is the best place to journal - I have other options, of course - but it seems important to add an update after such a long period of silence, for myself more than for the one or two people who might happen upon this disjointed entry.

Shelter-in-Place Day 198

Because of the Glass Fire, which started less than a week ago, the Air Quality Index for Santa Rosa and Petaluma was in the high 200s by the end of the day today. This is right now:

150 or above is a number that can cause health effects to everyone, not just those with pre-existing conditions, after 24 hours. Library branches have ceased curbside service here and there while the numbers remained high. The evacuations didn't reach downtown Santa Rosa, but they were close. Napa and Calistoga, St. Helena, and parts north and east of there are getting the worst of it. Nor is this the first fire of the season, but this one hit me harder than previous ones in terms of anxiety. Perhaps it's the combination of COVID, the state of US politics, and the post-traumatic trigger of smoke in the air, NIXLE alerts, and sirens. Could be. 2020, you just keep comin'.

On Sunday and Monday, I addressed the problem of high anxiety by organizing belongings; almost all of the previously unlabeled boxes in closets are labeled now. I know which ones have the tin-type family photos from the 1800s, which ones have my elementary school drawings, programs from the kids' performances - the whole range of what to take, what to leave is at least a little more understandable now. I've also packed something of a go-bag, and have prepped a few things so that we won't have to grab them. Water and animal food and tp already in the car. It's not only practical to do these things; it also helps me feel much less panicky. And in the process, I am able to get rid of more childhood clutter that doesn't serve me or anyone, and no only doesn't spark joy, but in some cases sparks regret and bitterness. Goodbye to that nonsense!

And it is October, my favorite month for many reasons and one in which I either write more, or at least tell myself I write more, which becomes a bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy. A good time to continue the cleanup, re-set, focus, and prepare for what almost certainly will be an extremely challenging few months. There is little doubt now that forty-five won't be leaving office willingly, regardless of the outcome of the election. It makes me want to do something to prepare, but I don't know what. Stock up the pantry? Move to Canada?

Perhaps moving backups from 16 years ago from CD to three computer hard drives will help. Somehow. 

Shelter-in-Place Day 167

I have reached the end of my month of self-imposed challenges around reading, writing and submitting poetry. 

I must say I won't miss the evening pushes to get everything done before I fall asleep. But I also don't want to drop these habits completely. Submitting often (but not daily), reading a new book often (but not daily), and tweeting - sometimes, not daily - seems reasonable. I look forward to trying it.

Shelter-in-Place, Day 165

 I served penance of a sort today for all the over-consumption yesterday (primarily of sugar - donuts! and candy! and dessert! and deep dish pizza for dinner) by eating light and exercising quite a bit. Dog walk, yard work, yoga, a walk with D. With any luck, I burned off a few extra calories.

Tomorrow I have not one but two (!) social events on the calendar, so I hope I am able to sleep well and feel prepared for breakfast at a restaurant for the first time in over 6 months and then company in the courtyard for dinner. This has been good incentive to clean up around here, even if no one comes inside the house. 

Shelter-in-Place Day 164

 I overindulged on my birthday: more sugar than I've had in the last six months put together, probably, and more food than I usually have in a week. But I also hiked, and gardened, and inspected the beehives, and read, and bought socks and a jogging bra, and thereby spoiled myself in ways other than food. 

It was especially lovely to have a day alone to do those things. No commitments to do anything else with anyone else - and wonderful little birthday wishes that came in by text and voicemail and email. So all in all, a good day. And best of all: two more days without work to continue to get things done around the house and yard. 

Shelter-in-Place, Day 163

This is the last day I will be 53, although S. kindly said I was turning 32 tomorrow. She has also been known to say she thinks of me as somewhere in my "early 40s." Bless her.

I caught most of the POTUS's speech live at the RNC via the NY Times, preceding an ostentatious fireworks show and light opera. While the unmasked multitude chanted at the row of American flags, "FOUR MORE YEARS, FOUR MORE YEARS!" I thought, "GET HIM OUT. GET HIM OUT." Ire doesn't even begin to cover the level of my antipathy. He really gets my goat. 

What do I want for my birthday? I want enlightenment to visit that man. 

Shetler-in-Place, Day 162

This morning, the dog and I jogged more than walked on our daily constitutional. He does well for a 11+ year old Shepherd mix. He's especially pleased with himself any morning that he can make any dogs bark at him from behind their fences along the way. (Which is most mornings.) Troublemaker. 

The fires continue to be contained, and the weather is cooler, at least at night. Here are the sobering stats from the Press Democrat: 

54,923 / 19% Acres / Contained Walbridge Fire

303,155 / 33% Acres / Contained Hennessey Fire

1,080 Structures destroyed

2,207 Firefighters

At least as concerning, for anyone in the Gulf States, is Hurricane Laura, now considered a category 5 storm, headed strait for the coast. I read one article calling it "unsurvivable." So I am thinking of the people whose homes and cities are in its path, hoping they all have the ability to get to safe ground. Now that I look at an image, it's slightly terrifying:

Only five more books to read for the Sealey (book-a-day) challenge. I hope that after August, I will continue to read at least a poetry book a week. It keeps me disciplined, broadens my mind, and I think it betters my own work.  

Shelter-in-Place, Day 161

The air was much clearer today, and there is talk about opening up more things in the country because Covid cases aren't on the rise as much as before.

But without a vaccine, opening things back up will only bring the caseload up again. I know I can't be the only person to understand this logic. Too bad there isn't a consensus on the matter.

It's day two of the RNC. I caught part of it yesterday morning on my way to work. Nothing brings up my blood pressure quite the same way as hearing bigotry, selfishness, and hatred touted as American values.

Shelter-in-Place, Day 160

Another night where I can barely keep my eyes open to finish my Sealey Challenge read (see www.thepracticalpoet.blogspot.com), tweet, post, crawl into bed.

After work (hot, smoke-filled skies, no air conditioning, pinched nerve in my neck), a poetry workshop which made me feel much better. But still, exhausted. And after the workshop, reading most of Bastards of the Regan Era, and then the aforementioned posting. Just hope it's all coherent in the light of day tomorrow.

Shelter-in-Place, Day 159

The air is still horribly smokey, but I just heard a light patter of rain. We are hoping for moisture without lightning, without wind. The next few hours will make a difference, one way or another, to the people fighting so hard to save homes and cities from burning. The Press Democrat lists the Wallbridge Fire (in the northwest) like this:

52,068 / 5%

Acres / Contained

Sounds grim, and it kind of is. But earlier today that containment was 0%. So this feels like progress.

It's Sunday night. Tomorrow, the library branches are likely to be open, although union members are very concerned about risks and air quality. I hope to sleep well, in spite of being worried about the weather. I spent hours outside (with a mask on) working on the yard in very high temperatures, and I'm especially tired from it. Clearly, too tired to compose a blog post. These self-imposed challenges are just silly, sometimes. 

Shelter-in-Place, Day 158

From Santa Rosa Press Democrat, Aug. 21, 2020 (Christopher Chung)

The haze in the air was worst in the afternoon, but it is now deceptively clear, even as firefighters work to keep the blaze away from the town of Healdsburg. 

When I started this COVID-19 pandemic Shelter-in-Place blog, I thought the pandemic might last a few months. And even then, I thought I was being grimly realistic. I hadn't really considered the possibility that we'd be living in much the same way we had been in April, but during "fire season." 

But here we are, and while I was weeding the yard today, the smallest voice in my head was musing that if the fire were to come to Petaluma, it wouldn't matter whether my yard was weeded. So by mid-day, when the heat was unbearable, I came inside and worked on other "prep" type activities. More clearing away things I don't need, more organizing, and then finally, I took at least a cursory series of videos/photos of the house and its contents for the purpose of documentation and insurance should worst come to worst. 

(And of course, writing that, I had to look up the phrase. Originally "worst comes to worst" - as I think of it, it later became more commonly "worse comes to worst," which suggests a progression, and now is sometimes "worse comes to worse." There's today's idiom lesson for you.) 

Shelter-in-Place, Day 157

I'm plum tuckered out, and am grateful to have made it to the weekend. This could be because I worked 10 of the last 11 days, the fires burn on, and there is now talk of another electrical storm moving in.

Regardless of D.'s certainty that we're in no immediate danger, I will feel much better after taking some time this weekend to get my evacuation ducks in a row, should it come to that.

I currently have 134 pieces pending word back from literary magazines (which is to say, 4 poems here, 5 poems there, etc., with many simultaneous submissions of the same poems) because I have submitted every day this month; I have read a book of poetry every day this month for The Sealey Challenge, and I have blogged both here and in my poetry blog, and have tweeted (heaven help me) daily. I am writing this (setting this down!) not to boast to anyone in particular but to encourage myself to keep it up for another 10 days. 

But as I say, I'm out of spoons for now.