October
There is a dead snake on the path, bicycle tracks across its body. Two noisy kingfishers fly from the tennis court fence to the river and back again. A blue heron lifts from behind some bushes; passes by me with its awkward grace; turns so that its slate-grey self has a backdrop of brilliant autumn maples; and flies downriver. A beaver lazily enters the water.
I'm glad that I have forgotten my camera, as I would doubtless be fumbling with that, instead of just feeling the embrace of this glorious grey morning.
I received a message that a reporter from the New York Times wanted to speak to me about my blog.
Was he interested in my fine, sensitive poems? Or perhaps my incisive political commentary?
No.
He was interested in Friday Cat Blogging.
The article is here. Yes, it requires registration -- but you can always make something up, and besides, it's cats.
November
Niki brought me this a few days ago, in celebration of Halloween, and the New York Times article; the little kitten purrs when squeezed. Gifts like this help make one real.
The kestrel is hunting in my garden again today; a garden that saw a brief flurry of snow yesterday, but is now bare. I have been feeling tired, physically, emotionally, spiritually. I think, 'my heart is breaking' -- but that is not exactly it -- it's more like erosion. My heart is eroding.
The photographs from Fallujah -- which I will not link to here, but they are easily found; the loss and dismembering of lives there, in the Sudan, in so many places -- and not by acts of god. The preoccupation here, and there, not with god, but with religion.
They say we may be hard-wired with the need for worship, for god, for some kind of spirituality. I think some of us may be hard-wired for logic and rationality as well, and such a dilemma this creates.
The kestrel takes a sparrow from the fence; the light fades earlier each day; and I am so tired.
Thanksgiving
These creatures, who companion me.
These friends, who sustain me.
These poets, who inspire me.
This house, which shelters me.
This garden, which feeds me.
This stone, which teaches me.
This changing moon, which comforts me.
This earth, which absolves me.
This ground, which will receive me.
December
Winter is hazardous. The world around my house is a sheet of ice, scattered with thin, dry snow. Windows bloom with frost, birch branches bare on the other side. I stay indoors, still stiff and sore from a fall two days ago. The dogs beg for a walk; they will not have one. Yesterday, the river complained, groaning beneath its ice-spotted skin. Ducks huddled together on stones above the surface.
even the moon
a shard
of ice
A slow morning. Nearly half-an-hour to get my body to move in my bed -- this is not because of pain; it's more like pushing against great weight. I notice that my fancy bruises are fading. A hot bath to warm the muscles and ease a spasm, then downstairs where I opened the shutters to a wide expanse of wings -- woodpecker.
I did not start hunting for the camera, just stood at the window and watched as he flew from one spot to another. He landed on the fence and leaned over to glare at the empty suet feeder, like an angry little old man in a red cap. And off he went.
Perhaps I will go out today after all. One mustn't earn the wrath of the bird gods.
FRIDAY CAT BLOGGING
TRANSLATE
Just finished reading our Solstice Letter! - I find that I am without words - only emotions... Thank you for sharing - it is actually comforting to know that there is at least one person who understands.
I am sorry you are going through this pain and grieve that there is no real help for your disease -
Posted by: endment | June 03, 2006 at 12:43 PM