Snowy Morning Wanderer

On this white white morning
not the blue jay, nor the cardinal
have camouflage,
nor the large black cat
who appears from time to time.
I see a faded red collar.
Who would have left her out
in such weather?

Then I remember Patsy
a sturdy feline, a gift on my seventh birthday
who wandered off on a similar winter day.
When he did not return
I knew my first desertion
the pain of offering my love and devotion
to another being
whom I could not control.

A week later
when he ambled back home
appearing well and well-fed,
what had I learned?
That those we love can break our hearts?
or
that cats will do as they please?

Hair Conditions

 I admit it--I am vain. At the first sign of gray hair, I began visiting Claire, my hairdresser, every six weeks for a "cut and color." Now after a year of cancer treatments, I have very little hair and all of it some shade of gray. It's easy to take care of, and I'm saving on shampoo and conditioner, but I wish it were longer and closer to its previous color.

Of course, aside from washing my face and brushing my teeth, I don't have to look at myself, so it's easy not to think about it. Then yesterday, I got the good news that one of my poems was accepted for publication. The bad news is they want a "head shot."

Which Jane should I send?

Jane of a year ago?

Bald Jane

Turbaned Jane in Chemo?

or fuzzy Jane today?

Which will win out--my vanity or my honesty?

Holy Saturday

What is holy about

this day after disaster

this time of utter defeat

this era of dissolution?

All our energies

our hopes

have been killed--

horribly killed.

We may try to deny

our role in the effort

to erase our fingerprints

to cast blame on others.

We may question

whether it was all worth it

whether what we believed

to be true, was true.

The day stretches out

from Friday's agony

to the utter darkness

of midnight.

But if we can hold on

to one filament of hope

one wisp of belief,

dawn will come

again and again.

 

Reading, Trying to Write, Learning

Once again today I sit down by the window to read What is the Grass by Mark Doty. It’s one of those wonderful books I love to read a little bit at a time because it is so rich, so full of his reflections on Walt Whitman, poetry, life, and the universe. As I read, I write in my journal quotations that move me and what my thoughts are about them.

 Today I wrote the following where Doty reflects on his experience ducking out of the rain in a beach changing shed full of men of various shapes, colors, and ages. He uses the word plethora, but decides...

 “The word I want to use here is pleroma, a Gnostic term for the fullness of all that is divine; it means the totality of God, who is darkness and silence, and only knowable through the aspects of divinity that come into light out of that fecund absence, a ‘space’ that is not a space.”

An old pic when I still had hair

 As I am writing this, Kat jumps on my lap for her regular morning cuddle and examination of my bathrobe for whatever breakfast has been left there. I try to continue my writing holding her and my pen in my right arm. It is not easy, but I continue until she finishes with the bathrobe and decides to start licking my face. Whether this is true affection or mere exploration for treats, I do not know, but it totally prevents me from writing.

 I am annoyed only for a second until I see the truth of what Doty is pointing at. This, this sweet animal, this fellow sharer of the universe, is part of the fullness of all that is divine, not unlike the birds and the squirrels who scurry around the yard. Tears well in my eyes as I recognize the gifts here all around me.

Thank you Mark Doty for leading me there, and thank you Kat for reminding me of all that is divine.

 

Companions

Sixteen years ago after a suspicious mammogram and subsequent biopsy, I drove to my doctor’s office for what both she and I knew was bad news, but news easier to be heard in person. I was not alone. Riley went with me. Riley was my fluffy grey Lhasa Apso, my boon companion, my soul mate, who went almost everywhere with me. I’m not sure if he understood why I was crying, although he was pretty smart, but he looked at me with those soft brown eyes, and I was consoled. 

Five years ago we made another office visit together, but this time only I walked out. 

Riley was not my first pet. There had been Patsy, the tiger cat who was a present for my seventh birthday. Patsy, also grey, was a friendly but independent feline. He loved to rub up against my leg, and his purrrrrrrr went on forever,  but he was also a hunter and not infrequently he showed up at the front door with the present of a chipmunk in his teeth. We were together until I started college, and he chose the wrong time to cross the street.

I was sad when Patsy died, but it was different with Riley. Riley and I were a team. So much as we could do things together, we did. Not only did we explore the trails and paths of Forest Park, but he went with me to the Cape where he got to run on the beach (off season) and explore wooded trails near cranberry bogs.  

Almost immediately friends started to ask if I were going to get another dog. I thought about it, even explored some shelters online, but I kept coming back to this: I didn’t want another dog; I wanted Riley.  

In the meantime, my friend Angie became ill. Angie had a chihuahua named Kat to whom she was devoted, and every time she had to go into the hospital, she would call and ask if I would take care of Kat until she got home, and each time before she left the hospital, she would call me to be sure Kat was home when she got there. She didn't want to be away from her more than she had to. Then one day she didn’t come home, and Kat remained with me.

 Kat is a lovely dog. Unlike many chihuahuas, she is not yippy, but extremely affectionate. She likes nothing better than to climb on me, nuzzle into my neck, and lick me. She demands little except attention and affection. She only barks to tell me that there’s someone at the door whom she welcomes with a wild wag of the tail once she sees who it is. But, she isn’t Riley. 

So in those early days after Angie died, I asked around for another home for Kat. I even visited one place that seemed a good fit, but it didn’t work out. So days went by. Every day I would put out her food in the morning, then sit down to eat my oatmeal by the window, and after she had eaten, she would come and look up at me expectantly, and I would pick her up, and she would lick my face. Every day I would take her out for a walk around the block, and neighbors began to know her name and talk to her. Every day as I filled the bird feeders, she would follow me outside and chase any squirrels who happened to be nearby. Every day I came to understand that Kat was Kat, different from Riley, but special in her own way. 

I think our relationship must be like a second marriage after a long and happy first marriage. It will never be the same or as sweet as that first, young love, but it is rich in the way that age gives us perspective to see what’s important and what’s not. 

Recently another mammogram and another biopsy has again delivered bad news, and tomorrow I will begin chemotherapy. I don’t know where this will lead, but I do know that when I return home, this tiny tan soul will greet me with unlimited love and loyalty, and what better medicine is there than that?

Hope is a Thing with Brown Fur

Kat the dog is ever hopeful
always expecting affection
from whoever happens to be near
pawing at at a pant leg
whining oh so quietly,

 “Love me, Love me.”

Most comply

offering pats or smooth strokes down her back.
Still it is never enough.

Before she was mine
she was Angie’s.

Before that
her history is unclear
except that she would have been abandoned
had not Angie taken her in.

So she begs to be picked up
while I write or talk on the phone.
She does not understand my annoyance
or a guest’s allergy.
She only knows love me and hope.

And because we do love her
and grant her the affection she desires,
her hope for more
only grows.

Peaches

 “...those peaches, hanging like constellations in the leafy
sky? In this darkening world, they are the only steady light.”
Barbara Crooker

When I try to imagine what the Greeks meant by ambrosia, that food of the gods delivered to Olympus by doves, I cannot imagine anything more heavenly than ripe, sweet golden peaches picked fresh from a tree in August. Fortunately I do not have to wait for avian delivery, but merely a trip to Bilton’s in Hampden. 

On a recent trip I asked when they would last have peaches and was told, “The end of August.” So this morning, the first of September, I was pleased to see I still had a few left before the long wait for next season. 

I picked one that looked ripe and perfect, no blemishes, then squeezed it every so gently, and it responded, “Yes.” I peeled off its downy skin with my fingers, cut off sections, removed the fruit willingly from the pit and slipped it onto my oatmeal, my hands dripping with its sweet, slippery juice.

But the pure joy came with my first bite. This was the perfect peach at the perfect moment. A day or even an hour earlier or later, and it would have been less-than, but here on this morning I was enjoying ambrosia!

The last few days have been difficult for me as I am dealing with the news that my cancer, dormant for 16 years, has returned. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I am reminded once again this morning that we only have this moment, and moments like this are meant to be savored. 

Wishing you many perfect peach moments!