If my grief. . .

If my grief were a book, it would be Dickens. Large, expansive, serialized.  My grief provokes tears, provokes laughter.  Marvels at the absurdity of life.  Goes on and on.  Driven by words.  And memories.  Little action and lots of description. 

If my grief were a touch, it would be the grip of an infant on his mother’s thumb.  Hanging on, but oblivious to the need to do so. A reflex of sorts. Never wondering why.

If my grief were a bowl, it would be a large ceramic bowl used to make bread.  Something that can hold the small bit of yeast and water and hold the enormous amounts of flour.  Accommodate the dough and air while holding the temperature steady for the rising.

If my grief were a garden, it would be a cottage garden.  English.  Somewhat of a mess, but breathtaking at its peak.

If my grief were a dog, it would be a dachshund.  Stubborn, hard to train, following me everywhere.  Sweet in its devotion. Sincere in its love.

If my grief were a pair of glasses, it would be bifocals with lines, heavy black frames, held together with super glue, and a Band-Aid.

If my grief were a sunset, it would be the opposite of a Hawaiian one.  The sun would not blaze the sky with color and magnificence to slip into a silver ocean turning the sky a vivid dark blue.  Oh no.  It would be the sunset of a blizzard in Maine.  Unnoticed for the misery.

If my grief were a door, it would be a revolving one like at the bank.  With muddy footprints and the fingerprints of mourners on the glass.

If my grief were an elevator, it would be out of order.  The door opening and closing, opening and closing, opening and closing, going nowhere.

If my grief were a sports car, it would be a Camaro – mostly ordinary but with a certain touch of pizzazz –like a custom paint job.

If my grief were a person, it would be Cheri and Donnie, Doug and Daddy, Susan and Debbie and Jes.

If my grief were to leave, I think there would remain a hole where it used to be.

in time of daffodils – e.e. cummings

Blue Skies and Daffodils Are a Comin’

Daffodils make my heart sing each and every spring since I saw my first one — I would have been about 15. I had’t lived in places that had daffodils. It was love at first sight. I planted a hundred daffodil bulbs about 32 years ago. They multiplied and multiplied. I think it accurate to say that I have thousands now

I ran across e.e. cummings poem some years after that. It too was love at first sight.

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

The Revolt

Me at 13
The Revolt

My hands cramp, fingers arching backward.
Arthritis. Two Advil daily.

My lower back aches, stooping my spine.
My arches continue their path to flat.

It feels like betrayal this revolt.

I was supple and graceful once upon a time.
First a disco queen and then a yoga diva.

This revolt surprises me.
The me that was me that will always 
be me is still there.

But aging and menopause have not been kind to me.

I tell the young’uns not to get old ---
there’s no future in it.

My arm wattles jiggle when I do goddess pose.

Oh, how I wanted something to jiggle when I was 13.
Unnaturally thin for most of my life,
I longed for hips and breasts.  
I had neither until the hot flashes were spent.

This extra weight is foreign to me.
There doesn’t seem to be a map for this territory.

I am frequently besmirched by the 
indignities of old age.

The beginnings of incontinence,
dull dry brittle hair,
my oily skin suddenly flaky and wrinkled.
But the acne has persisted.

I buy moisturizer and acne remedies.

I’ve quit wearing eyeliner.
The crepe underneath my eyes
prevents a straight line.

My beloved shoes languish in the closet.
My balance precarious --
four-inch heels may be my past.

This menopause cleavage astounds me.

Oh, how I had longed for breasts and 
now am plagued by underwire.

This revolt aggravates me.

My visage in the mirror a shock.
Who is that woman?

I feel weighed down by this body in revolt, 
but I practice yoga and I continue to dance.

My spirit intact.  
The me that was me that will always be me 
is still there.  

In revolt against the revolt.

Desperate for Tranquility

Here is a video of my Hawaii photos from the 2017 Very Epic Mother’s Day Vacation to Oahu and Maui.

I am desperate for tranquility. The world is too much with me.

The World Is Too Much With Us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.