So Quiet Here

There has been a lot of quiet here of late. Maybe it was the tail end of the heat, there was a family death, a cancer diagnosis, it has been full, but quiet. I don't have cancer, it is a matriarch of the family, I have had the privilege of caring for her a few days a week. I get to cook for her, make her tea, sit up with her while she tries to fall asleep. She is a hoot. Really funny. I woke her one afternoon to give her her medicine. I whispered, " Wake up, Sleeping Beauty!" Without missing a beat, she replied, "Is my handsome prince on his way?"

Many of my mornings have been spent painting, sitting with the dog, tending to daily tasks like baking, laundering, gardening and tidying up. Quiet. Really quiet. Normally, I would be in the beginning intensity of a new school year. The quiet can be unnerving at times. Yet, I like it. 

Now the rain is falling here in Southern California. I am beyond delighted. I sigh every time I hear the trickle of the rain outside the window. Before the sun set, I would peek out the window and smile as I looked out over the garden. The garden is even more delighted with the rain than I am! It is perfect timing before winter planting. The ground will soak in this steady rain, deep and needed.

I love falling asleep to the rain. I love waking in the dark, damp night and hearing the drumming of the water over the earth. I find such comfort and contentment in rainy nights. I covered the down comforter with a handmade quilt, loved and laundered and used over many years. I feel enveloped by all the other rainy nights under these covers. In Hawaii, I would listen to the rain on the steel roof of the garage. Now that is a sweet sound.

So I am quiet here. It is okay for now. A time of few words.

Michaelmas Time

Michaelmas

Michaelmas time, Michaelmas time!

Time is turning under the plough.

Under the stars, under the signs,

the ploughman toils with deep furrowed brow.

He turns his thoughts against the cold,

buries his fears ‘neath earth’s deep mould:

frost, like fire, burns white on its blade

of his iron share that red fire made.

I love this time of year. I love the chance to plant morsels of dreams and hope. I love working through the difficult times, tucking them safely away in my heart, allowing them to marinate and transform into the bright blossoms of possibility and clarity. Especially now, as we ready for the deepness of winter, and spring is but a faint glimmer on the other side...I honor my struggle.

On Turning Ten

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel

like I'm coming down with something,

something worse than any stomach ache

or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--

a kind of measles of the spirit,

a mumps of the psyche,

a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,

but that is because you have forgotten

the perfect simplicity of being one

and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.

But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.

At four I was an Arabian wizard.

I could make myself invisible

by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.

At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window

watching the late afternoon light.

Back then it never fell so solemnly

against the side of my tree house,

and my bicycle never leaned against the garage

as it does today,

all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,

as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.

It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,

time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe

there was nothing under my skin but light.

If you cut me I could shine.

But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

I skin my knees. I bleed. 

-Billy Collins

The Circle Game

Please, go get a hankie and make sure you listen through at least one chorus. It gives you hope. It gave me hope. Courtesy of Andrea.

Apollo

Hymn To Apollo

GOD of the golden bow,

And of the golden lyre,

And of the golden hair,

And of the golden fire,

Charioteer

Of the patient year,

Where---where slept thine ire,

When like a blank idiot I put on thy wreath,

Thy laurel, thy glory,

The light of thy story,

Or was I a worm---too low crawling for death?

O Delphic Apollo!

The Thunderer grasp'd and grasp'd,

The Thunderer frown'd and frown'd;

The eagle's feathery mane

For wrath became stiffen'd---the sound

Of breeding thunder

Went drowsily under,

Muttering to be unbound.

O why didst thou pity, and beg for a worm?

Why touch thy soft lute

Till the thunder was mute,

Why was I not crush'd---such a pitiful germ?

O Delphic Apollo!

The Pleiades were up,

Watching the silent air;

The seeds and roots in Earth

Were swelling for summer fare;

The Ocean, its neighbour,

Was at his old labour,

When, who---who did dare

To tie for a moment, thy plant round his brow,

And grin and look proudly,

And blaspheme so loudly,

And live for that honour, to stoop to thee now?

O Delphic Apollo! 

-John Keats

Farewell, Revenge

I thought I would feel better. I thought if I spoke my truth, I would feel better. I don't. I thought if H1 and H2 knew my story, the way it happened to me, I would feel better. I tried to be snarky and ill-tempered, but the thing is, that is just not me. Not at all. At the end of the day, I still say a little prayer to H1's and H2's angel. I ask that their angel guide them in light and truth and honor. So, you see dear readers, my attempt at revenge is simply not successful.

I feel better when I send out lovely poetry. I feel better when I describe the sunrise, or the late night breezes that wash away the scorching heat of the day. I feel better when I post photographs of my daily journey. I feel better when I see the spider as a helper in the garden, instead of a predator. You see, this has been my problem all along. I never believed that people I knew and worked with on a daily basis, closely, sharing our struggles, our triumphs, large and small could turn on me. Never. I NEVER thought this could happen. Even as it was happening, I did not believe it to be true. I could never believe that fear and revenge could be so strong and heavy handed. I never thought that EVERYONE I knew would NEVER want to speak to me again.

So, H1 and H2, you are off the hook. I will let you be. Instead, you can print out reams of poetry and gardening tips, love songs by Hafiz, photos of puppies and poppies. Even though you are printing this blog out and submitting it to a judge in order to prove I am a liar and cheater, maybe, one of the poems, one of the Morning Musings, will touch your heart, just a little. Maybe then, when you enter a courtroom, you will see before you a person who simply got hurt while working. And, hopefully, instead of trying to smash their last bit of wellness into the ground, instead of portraying them as liars and cheats, you will try to help them, just a little. The insurance companies are hurting people, I know you know that. I know you need to pay for your daughter's Bat Mitzfah, H1. I am sure she will need money for university, so I understand you need to work. However, please remember, one day, your daughter will be well past her Bat Mitzfah, past university, she will hopefully be working in a lucrative profession, one that makes you proud, H1. What happens if a book shelf falls on her, what if she is a teacher and is injured on a field trip? Who do you want sitting across from her when her Worker's Compensation Claim ends up in tatters? What if she has to lie in her bed, waiting for a Claims Examiner like D. F.? You have been around the block. You KNOW she is incompetent. Be the person you would want there for your children. Be an example of human goodness, show your daughter what a good man does, how a good man lives. Please. For her sake.

H1 and H2 Volume Two

Let's see. Where did I leave off? I can't remember. I have been up since long before dawn. I do this. I can't sleep. I am not sure why. I am exhausted, but I never seem to make it through the night. This has not always been the case. I used to sleep a solid eight hours a night. I love sleeping at night. I have always been an early to bed, early to rise kind of girl. As a child, sleep overs were torture for me. My friends would sleep in until 10 am sometimes. I would have been awake with the dawn, watching them sleep, looking around their room from my sleeping bag on the floor. One time, I will admit, as I lie there waiting hours for my hostess to awaken...I spotted her diary under her bed. Yes, yes I did. May I add a qualifier? This might discredit me and prove to H1 and H2, that I am a liar. A big fat, can't be trusted liar. However, this particular friend was my bosom friend. We still are friends. We met the first day of second grade. Our names were not known alone, only with the other. Everyone in school knew we were best friends. I would sleep at her house nearly every weekend. I called her mother mom. She would drive us around Boyle Heights at night and tell stories of what it was like to grow up in that old Los Angeles neighborhood in the fifties. K-Earth 101 would be blaring oldies like "The Duke of Earl." She would usually have a can of Miller Lite tucked between her legs as she pointed out various spots of interest. But, I digress, again. I apologize H1 & H2. I can't say it won't happen a few more times. I know you are busy Barristers and all and have a lot to read.  So, yes, I did read her diary. The funny thing about it was that I already knew everything that was written in it. How she liked Darryl, a lot. How she would drag her best friend(me,) to watch Darryl and his mates dress up like KISS and play covers in his garage. Good times, my friend, good times. So that is my qualifier. She was my best friend and reading her diary was akin to reading my own memoir.

This first paragraph was written several days ago. I saved it, but had a hard time coming back to it. This tends to happen. It didn't happen before the injury. It is this oppressive heaviness that seems to overcome my entire being, body and soul...It comes on so easily now. It usually intensifies around big events. Doctor appointments, court dates, these are big ones. Much of the time, it is just there. After our meeting on Monday, it was as though a hurricane ripped through me, leaving refrigerators and tires and other debris in it's wake. I spent the entire next day close to bed. In bed actually. I was just embarrassed to admit it on National Television. The rest of the week followed suit. These are hard days for me. I was accustomed to work. I liked to work. I enjoyed returning home after a long day at school. Since this roller coaster became my life, I am unsure of who I am. I remember who I was. Unfortunately, most of the people I knew when I moved to California, I met at school. At one point, I did not know ONE person that I met outside of the Waldorf community. Imagine my state now. At this writing, I am in contact with one person from that community. One. I had a class of 30  students. That makes at least 60 parents, add in step-parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, colleagues, parents in other classes, staff members...That is a lot of people. When I worked the parking lot at pick-up time, I could honestly say I knew most parents, all of their children, nannies, babysitters, older siblings. After my injury, after this fight with the insurance company and the school and the endless, heart wrenching court days, being shunned and not welcome at the graduation of the children I loved and thought of daily for eight years, I now speak to ONE person.

This makes me sad. I am going to bed now.