Do you suppose, that 2000 years ago, when sandaled feet, dusty and dirty with the labors and travel of the day, were bathed by family or friends, it felt any different than it does today?

Was the water less or more refreshing than we are used to?

Was the soap or oil used to help in the cleansing any less effective?

Were cuts or bruises on those feet from an unexpected encounter with thorns or rocks or sticks any less sore?

Were the cloths used to dry those tired feet less effective than what we have today?

After a long day of play or helping with daily tasks were children any less wiggly, or giggly, or whiny?

I suppose it was all very much the same then as now. We are, as they were, grateful for any small attention from those welcoming us home. Whether it is the ceremony of bringing slippers, pouring a glass of wine, rubbing the knots out of aching shoulders, we are nurtured on a deep level, as they most certainly would have been.

Maunday Thursday is a reminder that these small tasks of grace we do for others are sacred. They connect us deeply as family, as friends. And even if we find ourselves alone on this day, we can do something that reminds us we have been loved and cared for in ways we may never have noticed.

Let’s be more aware in the future. Let’s provide the smallest of gestures of care when we can. Let’s handle each other gently, doing the same for ourselves. I suppose that, in fact, small gestures of self-care make every other act of kindness possible.

“Her extremes cornered him...immobilized him, until he was forced into action to protect her. It would mean another hospital stay...another attempt at medication....The toll it took on [their daughter] Jenny had been huge. Neither one of them were available to her after she was about ten. She had to learn to fend for herself. ...There were so many sleepless nights, so many spoiled holidays, so many times when the house had been in chaos. No wonder [Jenny] left home when she was so young.”

More about Jenny’s story in THE CUCKOO.

Jack is on his way home from collecting firewood in the San Jacinto mountains when he sees a woman pushing a bike along a back country road. For a split second something about her reminds him of his dead wife. She looks vulnerable and so sad. That chance meeting pulls Jack into her dark past in ways neither of them could have predicted.

It’s not like I’m at war with it, or anything. I frequently order up dreams of one kind or another. But that doesn’t always pay off, either. Say I want a calm dream of meeting a friend in a quiet garden or by the sea. The response I get could very well be a dystopian dream or one of being expected to go on stage not knowing my lines.

I do know that these burps and misleading responses could very well be easily interpreted by any qualified Jungian. But frankly I’m getting a bit annoyed. I have tried, over the course of many years, and in many professional settings, to interpret what gets shown up on the screen of my mind’s eye. And when I break these things down for my conscious mind, they all seem way too simplistic and obvious. I expected that there would be more sophistication in my subconscious, more nuance, a bit of subtlety. But no, usually after consideration I see a child’s drawing of a horsey or a boat or a bowl of spaghetti. The cause and effect is no Wagnerian Opera, as I had thought it would be, but only a simple little ditty like “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”.

But sometimes we need to celebrate what we do have. And we do have so much. Without times to appreciate the freedom we have, we cannot find the strength to keep working toward the ultimate goal.

I sent a last minute invitation to my family on July 3rd, telling them I was going to have potato salad, baked beans, and hot dogs available if they wanted to visit on the 4th. And yes, ice cream. I felt in need of a normal holiday with family. Potato salad is easy to throw together, and ‘my’ baked beans consist of canned beans in the crockpot with some brown sugar, ketchup, and mustard. How easy is that? This year I just put all the hot dogs and sausages in the same baking pan and put them in the oven to heat. How easy is that? There were times in the past when we made our own ice cream. We churned and turned and added more ice, more salt, to keep up the freezing process in an old fashioned ice cream bucket. But this year, store bought ice cream was pretty tasty, and effortless. How easy is that?

We didn’t have fireworks, no need for any more loud explosions here. Plenty going on all around us. Everybody said yes to my last-minute invite. And we gathered together, ate, talked, wandered out to the very warm garden (some of us), and the cousins made plans for a visit to an amusement park on Friday, and people moved from group to group. There was a lot of laughter, and we didn’t talk politics, not yesterday.

Remember how awful lock down was, and how we all felt imprisoned for so long? I won’t forget that, not ever. And our freedom to just be together put a shine on everything. There were no actual sparklers, but in so many ways, we all did sparkle. We all did shine. How easy is that?

The scenery is spectacular. I have traveled to Europe and when we reached the Mediterranean regions in Italy or France, I often thought I was home again in California.

We live in the San Fernando Valley, and we must traverse the canyons, one way or another, to get to the sea. Today we made the journey to Malibu where the surf is often ‘up’ as they say. Today the ocean was calm, the waves gentle on the shore where we sat enjoying the view and the food.

On our way back home we saw something we often see here, too. A large plume of smoke indicated somewhere in the Santa Monica mountains there was a fire. These brush fires are common in the summer and fall, and always alarming because of the tragedies that may follow. Today it looked like whatever was happening was being contained, mostly, because the smoke was white which I am told indicates there was water dropped. But there was still a reddish brown undertone that meant it might not be fully controlled.

We are surrounded by the folds of these mountains and the beautiful foliage that covers them, especially this year due to lots of rain. Everything is lush. But recent heat is begining to dry out the brush. Rye grass is turning yellow, then brown. Danger is ahead. If the mesquite goes up it will be a hot fire, hard to control. Mesquite has an oil in it that means it burns hot, and long.

It’s wonderful how we live with danger and beauty, somehow aware of both. Today was glorious. Lunch with good friends by the sea, a drive through the canyon back to our home, and a reminder that the world we have now is both beautiful and perilous, which sharpens our appreciation all the more.

It was a good day at school. I am in the fifth grade and today I wore my new saddle shoes. They look good, and the blisters on my heels are a small price to pay for being part of the after-school handball game. I’m walking home now, but the rubber ball bouncing on the asphalt and then hitting the backboard still rings in my ears. My fist opens and closes remembering the satisfying smack against the ball’s surface.

Someone has lit a fire and the smell of pine burning obscures the acrid smell of the smog. There’s a cool breeze, and some of the trees show they are getting ready to drop leaves. Their colors are muted, not brilliant, but still in California they let us know fall is here.

Will there be meatloaf for dinner tonight? Maybe. My grandmother will be there by now. It’s Thursday night, and she usually comes for dinner on Thursday. Meatloaf probably for sure. And baked potatoes. Maybe Coleslaw. My stomach is growling. I’m always hungry. Thursdays we have big dinners, not just a meat patty and some bread. I love Thursdays.

I am skipping now, in spite of the blisters. I can see my grandmother’s car in our driveway. Sprinklers are turned on all up and down the street, to keep the wide lawns green just a little bit longer. I skip close to the spray, mouth open, to catch a drop or two of water.

Then it’s up the three steps to our front porch. I can smell the meatloaf and baking potatoes from the door. Yep. Grandma’s here.

Children have an instinct about nature if they are exposed to it early enough. They understand completely they are part of it, not separate from it. I want to remember that as an adult. I want to get close enough to the leaves of my maple tree so that I can breathe the miracle of clean air. I want to stand under the full moon and drink in her kind, reflected light.

As a child I thought my relationship with the natural world was unique, that I alone could appreciate it for the tiniest flower, the hidden splendor of a seashell, or the faint aroma of rain. My dad pointed out the secret life of a ladybug when I was about three, and I took that idea and made it my own. My mother did not share my astonishment at the life of a ladybug or anything else I brought her from nature. I remember finding what looked like the tiniest of rose buds in the grass of our front yard. She was busy at the sink, and my treasure could not have been less interesting if I had brought her a handful of dirt. In that one moment I realized that some people did not see things as I saw them. And that is, of course, true. Personal experience is unique. No one can see through my eyes what I see, or hear what I hear with my ears, feel exactly what I feel when I touch a leaf. We come into the world as a part of it, but unique to it. The moon shines on all of us, we see it wax and wane, but the pull we experience in our bodies, in the tides of our blood and tissue, is different for each one of us.

I wish you joy in all the nuances of this season of change. Remember you are unique in your experience of every delicious, challenging, comforting moment. Savor all of them.

Symbolic of a longing to get out and about again, the shoes guilt me every time I open my closet. It hasn’t helped that I am plagued by a troublesome Achilles tendon on one foot and two knees that have almost no cartilage to cushion them. Yes, I’m doing all the things one is supposed to do about that. But I find overcoming the pain to do the exercise and walking prescribed is so damn hard.

I have become oppositional-defiant within myself. My spirit is in constant conflict with my body. I think this is an age-old problem, and I mean that in every sense you can make of it. “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak....” We all know that one.

I long for a tonic to take me out of this morass, energy to finish the laundry and plan the meals, strength to walk the steps, pedal the exercycle, make the bed every morning. Is it just that I am aging? This is not the me I expected to find in this time and place.

It’s easy to blame one’s own inabilities on external factors. But I really do think that we are living in an entirely different world. I see my grandkids hurrying to catch up because they missed so much during that interminable year of lock-down and Zoom schooling, and I see their parents almost frantic to support whatever it is the kids need to make that happen. Social connections have become twice as important. No opportunity should be missed because, what? We might have to be locked in isolation again at any time? We are hoarding connections as if it were possible to do so.

I know that if I stopped watching the news for hours every day, I would have more energy to finish my laundry, to organize my closets, to make plans that allow me to spend time writing. But I don’t stop. I watch every day, for far too long. I keep looking for a shred of hope, some light in the darkness of political chicanery, some evidence that there will be adults in the room with the ability to make wise decisions. And I will not find it there. I know that.

I have made my confession. And now I will drink a cup of chestnut tea, move the laundry from the washer to the dryer, and find a little peace. And breathe. I will remember to breathe.

Right now it feels to me like time is as fragile as the fall leaves I arrange in the little tin can labeled 365 that sits on my desk. The leaves were only tiny buds in June. Now If I handle them too roughly they crumble. I’ve had them here for a week and I love the way they are beginning to curl and the way the colors change as they make their inevitable journey to stardust. That’s where our journey ends too. Stardust.

Three hundred and sixty-five days in a year sounds like a lot of days. But this last year those calendar pages have turned too swiftly. Have we done all of the things we determined we would do in January? The news piles up more and more messages of wars and rumors of wars, more horrors of what people do to one another in the pursuit of what? More of what? Those that have nothing have nothing to bring to the fight and are crushed by those who have everything to the edge of the world, off the edge of the world. What can we do about any of it? Is it out of our hands, really? Donations to humanitarian causes surely will help. But is it ever enough? So much beyond any individual control, we look to each other for reassurance that there are still things in the world that are good, are kind, are helpful.

There are a lot of humanitarian networks that work to funnel water, food, medical supplies to those most in need. But so many big holes exist in those nets. Still, we do our tiny bit to keep those fragile networks in place, to strengthen them. Every contribution does matter, of course it does. I like to think that whatever we give makes the net a bit stronger, gives those who serve a bit more hope, a bit more energy, a bit more of those resources so desperately needed.

Gratitude matters. We remind ourselves of that once a year, at least. The other day I found myself sitting at my desk and feeling an overwhelming sense of calm and well-being. And I realized that the source of that feeling was the gratitude I felt towards everything I could see from where I was sitting. Even the sharpened pencil, even the mess of papers on one corner of my desk. Everything seemed special, everything seemed to be a blessing. It’s hard to hang on to that feeling, and I don’t expect to find it whenever I look for it. But this year I hope to take the memory of that one moment forward to our Thanksgiving celebration. I think all those little sparks of gratitude can make up some strong fibers to hold us together as families, as communities, and as a world that is working hard to find expressions of kindness everywhere. I am grateful for you, Dear Reader, and I hope you have a Thanksgiving that feeds not only your body, but your soul. May gratitude flood us all this year.

We missed Thanksgiving entirely, and so did our kids and their kids. Somehow we all got bowled down like ten pins, one by one, and the only one left standing was our daughter who had this awful virus last Thanksgiving. She has managed to stay clear, thank goodness, but isolation in a house with two sick-o’s is not much fun. But I digress.

My neighbor’s request was a little spark, a glimmer, of joy. She was learning how to propagate from cuttings, and I was so happy that even though I am imprisoned by my contagion, I could provide something to help her. And besides, who wouldn’t be happy to think that these lovely roses will bloom in another garden before long. I am sure she has just the touch needed to encourage new growth.

So from out of the dregs of this illness I am sending you this little story of hope for the future, gratitude for the grace notes of the present, and the most fervent wishes for your very good health through the holiday season!

But for the last two days I have found some renewed energy. No fewer aches and pains, but enough energy to cook a very belated Thanksgiving dinner for family. No matter that it was New Year’s Day. We had the Rose Parade running on a loop, and people helped themselves to turkey, sweet potato casserole, green beans, stuffing, a lovely salad contributed by my daughter, and pumpkin pie. Covid had taken us all out of the running over the usual November event, but I determined we would move the feast. We toasted the day and each other with a little champagne, and laughed a bit, and just enjoyed each other’s company. It was a casual feast, but it was fun, and pretty tasty. And I think my delight in the whole day was in large part due to the fact that I actually enjoyed doing most of the cooking myself. It’s been a very long time since I felt capable of that.

Today my delight is in the lemon tree in my backyard that has overproduced this year. Our gardeners were here today and pointed out that fact, and volunteered to balance it out. Of course I sent the harvest home with them, because they left more than enough for us on the tree. And lemons last a very long time on the tree, so we should be well supplied for months.

The sun is shining, the air is cool and crisp, and how delightful is that! I hope you have a wonderful beginning to your new year, and if you want to see what word the spinner gives to you, here is the link: Word of the Year Generator by Jen Fulwiler

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

We learned to use what we had in our pantries when we could not figure out ways to shop or organize deliveries. We figured out how to connect safely by using the internet and doing some online gathering. Artists provided free entertainment online so we could have some relief from the daily news of death and more death. We spent time organizing our living space, well some of us! We discovered old hobbies and looked for new ones. We were learning how to patch some of the holes.

But we still lacked the safety we were used to. The world outside felt dangerous. A drive to the pharmacy to pick up medication became an event. Trips for medical appointments were reduced to online or phone calls. Groceries were delivered and left on the porch until we could retrieve and decontaminate them in fear of a stray virus or germ. We were living in a world at war with something we could not even see. Our ground was shaky. The news was bad. Everyday, the news was bad.

We had lost our regular medical provider to retirement just before the pandemic. We found another doctor, more local, but in a brand new practice. We visited the office a couple of times for routine appointments, but never felt like systems were safely in place. The building itself was under reconstruction, and even finding a way in to the office became a puzzle. Then, when both of us came down with the disease we had been avoiding for three years, it was Thanksgiving and the doctors office shut down completely, even for phone calls, through the weekend. We were in freefall. Thankfully we were able to manage our symptoms, and after three weeks we finally both tested negative. But the experience had shaken us. We looked for a new provider. And through a round-about recommendation from an old friend, we found one.

How pleasant to be met with friendly, efficient front office staff. How amazing to find that the doctor had time to spend with each of us without rushing! There were onsite services that seemingly had vanished from other practices. Blood was drawn right there in the office, x-ray taken, and referrals for other tests made with clarity and concern for ease of access and close proximity. We left the office feeling heard, cared for, and impressed with the obvious professionalism and kindness that we had been used to many years ago. The whole experience had given us reassurance that there had been a major repair to one of our nets. And that, for seniors, is important. We are grateful. And we will continue to look for more ways to mend our nets.

I hope you find what you need, too. Let me know!

Does the same apply to our moods? Can we choose to be of a sunny disposition? Many say yes, just decide to be happy, that’s all it takes. Does it work that way for you? Sometimes there are triggers that bring us to places where we need to be sad, or mad, or even just sit with how confounded we are by people or world events. Up until now, I have had very little patience with this whole process.

As I age I remind myself that I spent my young life pushed and pulled by the moods of a manic-depressive mother and a chronically depressed father. Even the weather seemed to be controlled by their moods. Bright sunshiny moods were predictably followed by darkness and cold. But the timing as to when things would change was uncertain. Sometimes we loved the rain, sometimes we hated it. Sometimes we basked in sunny weather, sometimes we hid from it, drapes pulled against the glare. Children adapt, take their cue from those who care for them. It was a stormy childhood.

The effects of my beginnings seem to ripple very close to the surface these days. Perhaps I can see the connection between then and now, although I couldn’t explain it to you. And the triggers for the change in my outlook are very different from what they were in my childhood. Or are they? I really can’t say for sure about that, either.

Sometimes the aging process itself presents overwhelming challenges of health that can knock the wind out of me. I have not experienced much physical pain in my life, until now. Some days it seems like every bit of me hurts, and often I feel the pain comes from unshed tears, unacknowledged loss, unrecognized abuse. My body is now unable to contain all of those sharp pieces of the past, and it lets me know I must acknowledge what was, see it for what it was, allow it to be, express it somehow.

I am working hard to be grateful for the messages, because I know unless I can make peace with the pain, emotional and physical, I will be caught in a paralyzing web that will not allow unfettered freedom of feeling. And feeling is what I long for. Honest feelings, with no self-inflicted criticism or punishment. There can be no more holding back the tears, no more tempering the laughter, no more fear about there being too much or too many feelings to control. That’s not my job now. And indeed it never was my job, although that is the job description I grew up with. I’ll write my own now. I should have learned this lesson earlier, but we operate with the knowledge we have when we have it.

It’s not too late. Is it?

When I was in therapy some years ago, my therapist loved to hear my dreams. She had a quiet way of nodding and smiling as I unfolded them as carefully as I could, which always made me feel as if I were a child showing her a rudimentary drawing. She didn’t demean them—not at all—I was the one who did that. But she always seemed amazed that they were so obvious, so pointed in their message. I think I was hoping for something like the dreams Gregory Peck revealed to Ingrid Bergman in the wonderful movie SPELLBOUND. Something that would unlock whatever was being repressed and so set me free of the things that brought me to therapy. Where was my big revelation? And is it only in the movies that this happens? Where was that “small wheel” that represented a revolver?

However, a few nights ago I had a wonderful, freeing dream. I’ve been struggling with the aches and pains of growing old, with hip pain, knee pain, and foot pain. Arthritis, yes, and the breaking down of protective collagen, the things that inevitably happen if you live long enough. In this recent dream I was in a campground in a forest, and I left the people I was with and started walking. I walked for a long time before I realized I had no pain, that I was walking as I used to walk. There was no fear of falling or running out of breath. I was taking long, deep breaths of the fresh forest air. It was like taking a drink of water when you have been very thirsty. I don’t remember ever having the experience of fragrance before in a dream, but I was breathing in all the scents that perfume a forest.

When I woke I felt refreshed, renewed. I had received a lovely gift. I didn’t care whether there was any deep meaning or special significance in it. I simply enjoyed it. I have savored it every day since then. I am grateful. Living long comes with some surprising rewards.

Sweet dreams, dear reader.

I could.

So for three years, from the age of 62 to 65 I served as Administrator/Chief of Staff for the union that represented 15,000 staff employees in one of the biggest universities in California. I enjoyed the job, and under my watch our budget went from red to black. Programs were working, union staff had workloads balanced, and things hummed along, mostly.

I won’t bore you with how I came to resign, because it is a sad little story of how misogyny still rules just under the surface of so many institutions and so many organizations, no matter how enlightened they claim to be. It was time to retire, in any case, even though I could have continued doing the work for several more years. My family situation had changed, new grandchild on the way, and the travel I enjoyed seemed like a bad choice when the battles I knew I would face in that position were already taking up too much of my time and emotional energy.

It has been seventeen years since I retired, and I can hardly believe that much time has passed. I have delighted in helping with our grandchildren as often as I could, and now one is off to college, one will be a senior in high school, and one a sophomore next year. I published a novel last year, and am working on another one I hope to finish soon.

But as time goes by I find it harder to do the things I took for granted for so many years. My knees are cranky, one of my hips gives me grief, and my energy level has dropped considerably because of a heart that likes to flip into syncopated rhythm every now and then.

Today, though, I was able to help in a small way in the garden where my daughter runs a preschool. She has rose bushes that bloomed profusely, but now were drooping with spent blossoms. So I spent a little time this morning dead-heading. Isn’t that a terrible name for a fairly pleasant task? I snipped away at the old to make room for the new blooms, some of which are already in bud. I listened to the children playing in the back garden while I worked in the front, and found I had more energy than I thought. No stooping or squatting required, thank goodness! And seeing the result was a treat.

What are you finding that pleases you today?

If you are interested you can find my novel at Amazon, here: https://www.amazon.com/Cuckoo-V-R-Nelson-Watts/dp/1953595146.or any independent bookstore. Look for THE CUCKOO by V.R. Nelson-Watts. Hope you enjoy it!

Obviously this nothing-to-worry-about malady only seemed to be evident in my family. I did not see other kids obsessing about anything. In fact, I can remember feeling like I walked around in an invisible cloud-filled telephone booth where the lines were dead. Isolated in my ‘nothing to worry about just nerves state’, I often felt immobilized, unable to respond, shut down. If I could shut down for long enough, the phone line might be magically be repaired, the cloud dissipate, and the door open to the outside world. I retreated into books, my lifeline to other realities. Even a Disney comic book with it’s bright colors and inane dialogue had the power to lift me out of myself. Where would I have been without that escape?

I put myself in therapy when I was eighteen because by then I realized that the ‘just nerves’ I suffered from were not minor, were not insignificant, and were hampering my ability to cope with taking care of my two younger brothers, cooking, and cleaning. My mother was in a psychiatric ward at that point, with her own variety of ‘just nerves’. I found the therapist in the yellow pages. He sat behind his desk -- don’t think I ever saw him stand up, now that I look back on it. My dad reluctantly paid the $15 per hour (it was 1960) for this man’s time, and his only advice, ultimately, was “when you feel anxious, put a sugar cube under your tongue.” Really. I think I went maybe five times.

Now everybody has a case of “just nerves” but they have much better terminology for it and are taken much more seriously. Anxiety attacks are horrible, and that’s what I had, and what I still have from time to time. People have varying degrees of sensitivity to outside stimulants, like noise, crowds, chaos. I apparently have very little ability to tolerate much. Triggers are everywhere. Learning this about myself has taken me a very, very, long time. Even my long-term therapist from my midlife crisis said, when pressed, that my condition was “just garden variety neurotic’. Again, ordinary, nothing to worry about.

But I have learned that my condition, whatever it is, matters. It matters to me, and I still am trying to learn how to negotiate the curves it continues to throw my way. I have a heart problem called atrial fibrillation, and that too is not ‘dangerous’ my doc tells me, but it sure as certain feels like it is. And what triggers it, insofar as I can determine, seems to be emotional, or in other words “just nerves”. I am henceforth going to take my nerves seriously. I want to honor my nerves. Join me. Let’s let our nerves know that they matter, that whatever messages they are trying to send, be it danger, toxins, overwhelm, we will receive them and they will be heard. Let’s listen to every last one of them, those persistent and altogether important, nerves.

End of rant. I hope you are having a peaceful day. Thanks for listening.

Leaving home was not without its trauma. My younger brothers were in my care when they were not in school, and when I wasn’t working or going to junior college, I helped out with the housekeeping. My mother was away. Some would say ‘away with the fairies’, but it certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience for her or any of us. She was in a state mental institution with what was then diagnosed as manic depression. Hard times for all of us. We had just moved to a new house in northern California, and trying to make it feel like home without her in it was a challenge. Dad picked her up from a private institution in Los Angeles after the moving van packed up all our stuff and headed north. I was in charge of dropping off the family cat at the pound, and then we caravanned to our new house.

We all hoped she would make the transition, of course, and somehow pick up the threads of herself and her life in new surroundings. It didn’t last. How could it? She was taken out of one hospital against medical advice, and dropped into new surroundings in a place where she had not even chosen her new home. My dad and I did that. She lasted a month or so, but then was shipped off, this time to a state institution, leaving us to sort out our own new surroundings, schools, jobs, and all the things that come with a big move. I was nineteen, my brothers ten and five. My dad was only forty three, my mother forty one. So young, all of us.

I keep telling this story. Many of you have heard it a thousand times. But the matter of the little white hamper I left there haunts me. I want to see those things I treasured from my childhood. I didn’t want them to be given away, or trashed. But once my mother returned home it was clear we couldn’t live together. She was angry at me all the time, and I at her. I didn’t ask to fill her shoes while she was gone, but I had to. She felt guilty about that, but it wasn’t her fault either, she was ill. And somebody had to pick up the pieces for my brothers, my dad. The conflict was too great for all of us. I had to leave. My dad agreed. Somehow I had expected him to say he wanted me to stay, he’d somehow intervene in the conflict. But he didn’t. He said it was time for me to go. So I went. I left my childhood behind, I suppose, both figuratively and literally. I never saw those childhood treasures again.

And sometimes I am sad about that and all they represented. Which from this point in my life seems perfectly fine. There were so many happier times ahead, but those years need to be labeled correctly, in the album of past memories, as sad.

If you find an auburn haired doll in a blue dotted Swiss dress, let me know. Her name is Maggie. And I still love her.

I’ve been thinking about another kind of fall today, for some reason. Maybe because fall is a season for kids, and the fall I’m thinking of took me right back into my childhood. Wham. And I was there.

I was doing some graden assessment a few summers back, watering a few dry plants, and clipping the odd branch, when my foot caught on the hose and suddenly I was face down on the grass. The fall did not hurt, it was cushioned by soft ground and springy grass. I was bombarded by the aroma of grass and damp earth, and suddenly I was a kid again, on my stomach, looking for tiny flowers or lady bugs, whatever life I could find down among blades of grass that couldn’t be seen without being on your belly. I took a few minutes to just be there. Well, what else could I do? A plan for getting up needed to come together before I could think about trying to get back on my feet. It was regenerating, really, that fall, a time machine experience, and those are rare. I was three, five, or maybe six again, my senses sharp, unafraid. Everything seemed possible.

Eventually I crawled, like a baby, towards a garden chair, and hoisted my bottom onto the seat. I was back in the present. I sat there for a moment and savored what had just happened, found myself laughing, and so grateful for that unexpected face plant. Sometimes I guess that’s just the kind of plant one needs in one’s garden; a very close encounter with nature, one that takes your breath away. I do treasure that memory.

So now I think I will do a little decorating, having savored that memory of a distant summer, and so many distant summers before that one. It’s time now. Don’t you think?

I have run out of waiting. Can’t get more at the store or from my neighbor. I guess I will have to be patient until the waiting compartment fills up all on its own. So there you go, I have to wait. Patiently.

One of the things I am not out of is angst. That compartment is overflowing. I have plenty of worry, too. Concern overfilled its bucket long ago. Anger has combined with frustration and put a slightly muddy color over everything.

I have lots of work to do here to clean up the mess. Lots of sorting and clarifying. I get some help from rationality whenever I encounter it, and that goes a long way. But the job is hard, and rationality often gives way to a numb inertia, the dark and sedentary kind, like molasses of the mind.

I walk out of the room when the news goes rambling on and on, burying me with fear, and head straight for my crossword puzzle or solitaire. Those calm me down a bit, distract my overwhelmed thinking processes..

Then I get a message from an online friend, or a card comes in the mail, and I remember that I am still connected to kind people. People who care about the world, who care about their part in it, and who care about me. Does it settle everything? No, of course not. But what it does do is connect me to the kind of reality I need. Things settle down. The patience compartment begins to fill and suddenly waiting isn’t quite so hard.

I have a very dear friend who spontaneously drops things at my doorstop when I need them most. How does she know? She’s got the gift. She knows. Today it was snacks to help with the tedium, the nail-biting, hand wringing, pacing sort of day it is. The muddy color is draining away, a bit of energy is neutralizing a bit of the inertia.

I know that acknowledging what is real and what is hard and what is impossible and what I can and cannot do to change things much bigger than myself is the right thing to do. I acknowledge all of that. Often.

But oh, please, dear Universe dear Random Chance dear God wherever we find them -- please let the good, the kind, the rational, and the positive prevail. Please. Please let there be light in all of this darkness, and fill our empty spaces with hope for our future and the future of this lovely, pretty planet.

Sometimes there is good news sandwiched in between the bad. There are new innovations with incredible mushrooms, for instance, that have the ability to clean toxins from polluted dirt. And innovative young people are discovering amazing ways to reuse and recycle the mountains of trash our consumer economy gives us. Bees are finding ways to survive, thanks to many changes made in small ways by home gardeners and cities all over the world. In my garden things are still blooming, even in December.

There’s a pretty little camellia japonica that has for the first time this year produced several blossoms. She lives in a corner of the front garden that I rarely visit, and I was so happy to see her blooming her lovely little self. She’s found her spot. Her roots have taken hold, and now she seems content and thriving. Her leaves are dusty. It’s been dry here, and when the gardeners come they leave a fine dust that spreads easily in the wind. She doesn’t seem to mind. She’s a sturdy lady.

She reminds me that we are all survivors of so much trauma from the last five years. We have had sanity restored in some measure over the last three years. But you know what I mean, surely. The echoes of the pandemic and the political chaos that we are being faced with in the future have left us a bit shaky and uncertain of what comes next. We are covered with a fine dust of anxiety, and I, for one, find it hard to shake off. Perhaps a cleansing rain will come.

My attempts to come out from under that pesky dust will continue. Holidays are here! And I have had fun (which is a good antidote and cleansing for the soul) making a few ornaments, and soon I will be addressing Christmas cards and thinking of all of you. The tree is up, and gets a daily spritzing/misting of water to keep it fresh. I get a nice cleansing whiff of pine when that happens. Sometimes I look up and catch the dancing glimmering motes on a stream of light from the afternoon sun. I used to think of those motes as angel dust. Light changes everything.

The family is doing well, we are grateful for their clear light of exuberant youth and promise. All are looking forward to a break from work and school. Grandkids grow up so fast! This year the youngest is playing bass guitar in a band, the middle one is applying to colleges (please let her stay close to home!) and the oldest is thriving in her second year in college (close to home!) and is creating amazing works of art.

Wishing all of you pockets of joy, packets of peace, and huge helpings of loving connections. Let’s replace that dusty dust with shimmers of light as we move into the new year. Light some candles. And look for the angels in every corner. You can see them if you try.