On the eve of a Halley’s comet —
in the year 1835,
Mark Twain was born in Missouri,
and world truths were given life.
How fitting that the stars aligned
with fanfare for Mark Twain.
His wit and wisdom are universal,
if people tune their brains.
When Twain crossed over —
in the year 1910,
the fanfare did not stop:
as Twain lay on his death bed,
Halley’s comet flared again.
Pincushions strapped on our young wrists.
Kettlecloth fabric, irons that hissed,
Butterick patterns, and dressmakers chalk.
“Cut with the grain,” Miss Kane would squawk.
A deadline to finish my culottes loomed.
The project came home with me; I was doomed.
I would have preferred to write a poem
than take my sewing project home.
Our machine had a bobbin that constantly jammed.
It was ancient and faulty — was my project damned?
I finished the culottes — they did not fit.
No more sewing class; I resoundingly quit.
Within and without —
cross the threshold for new dreams
in the pulsing heart.
I came upon this lone door in a valley outside the town of LaConner, WA during a 2015 bike ride before the pandemic.
It was a treat to stop and ponder a displaced door in a rolling valley near an old cemetery with leaning tombstones.
Surreal.
But not nearly as surreal as 2020. We collectively crossed the threshold into a changed world.
What would be our attitudes? To get riled up by world chaos? Or to find moments throughout each day to be in the present moment? Easier said than done!
I lie on the grass to contemplate the sun filtering through our mountain ash tree. Sun sparkles through its pointed leaflets.
At night, I listen to the wind rustle its branches. Music! Our mountain ash uses two of my five senses: sight and sound. In fall and winter, I am surprised to learn that robins, blue jays, and black-capped chickadees become drunk on its fermented berries.
Must keep eyes open to witness the little winos.
And You? What activities or non-activities bring you joy?
May your one pulsing heart find you safe and happy!
I met Blue during a morning walk near a friend’s home on the Oregon Coast. I followed his antics for several days.
Not sure he appreciated the paparazzi following him.
No humans allowed.
A heron dance is sacred.
Please leave my marsh now.
Washington State is the first in the country to legalize human composting.
It started pre-Covid, with a non-profit organization called the Urban Death Project. The name was changed to Recompose, a public benefit corporation.
Hmmm…Recompose. I like the sound of that. Do I get a chance to be more composed in the next life?
The Recompose business is an alternative to the existing options of burial and cremation. The process takes about 30 days as human bodies are converted into soil through “natural organic reduction.”
Essentially, human composting.
Wait…
Human composting? Gives me the shivers.
Do I want to be turned over to loved ones in a dirt bag? Should I worry that I will come back as a beefsteak tomato or a radish?
What happens when we pass on?
Do we all just “drop our bodies” — our human shells — and leave our human spirits behind on Mother Earth?
A great mystery.
I first heard about dropping our bodies from the Ram Dass Here And Now podcast.
Ram Dass dropped his body shortly before the covid pandemic.
Listening to Ram Dass, I shiver less and laugh more about the whole death conundrum.
Ram Dass, Jack Kornfield, and Thich Nhat Hanh’s Zen words reassure: no one is alone, no one is separate from Mother Earth.
Although it is not easy to drop our bodies, everyone will.
There is poetry in old, gated cemeteries. Historic Graceland Cemetery in Chicago with its elaborate monuments and headstones has always fascinated me.
But how are we being good stewards of land for future generations?
Recently I attended a Catholic church service to hear the priest say he felt sad that parishioners were choosing cremation over burial.
Really?
I cannot imagine this priest would go for composting.
But what’s that to me? We all have free will. We all must turn inward to our own heart, mind, and body for the answer.
It is not easy.
And if we are worm food for birds?
Make mine a robin.
Hope Springs Eternal.
We have a chestnut tree in our back yard. Chestnuts and leaves blanket the lawn. The squirrels are in fat city. They scamper and scratch holes in the grass. They bury their treasure in the rockery.
But this year, the blue jays, who have a nest in our mountain ash tree, are in on the action too. I witness a chestnut battle.
One of the Blues descends from the mountain ash. Soon, a nut is in his beak. He returns to a branch with his prize.
Squirrel stands erect and looks distressed. He is frozen and perplexed by Blue. His tiny front paws fold over his chest. Discouraged? No. He darts to the lawn for more chestnuts.
He hops around, stores a nut in his cheek, and eventually scratches a hole to bury it. Squirrels bury an average of 10,000 nuts a year and end up eating only about 4,000.
Is it greed? Since the Blue jays have been showing up, is he hiding more of his booty?
Enter Squirrel #2. He leaps toward Squirrel #1 who scoots into the rockery.
More Blue jays descend.
Blue jays are carnivores known to rob baby squirrels from nests and prey on juvenile squirrels.
Squirrel #2 has intimidated Squirrel #1 who darts away to a more distant cranny in the rocks.
He scratches and inspects a burrow, stands on his hind legs, and looks distraught. Has Squirrel #2 confiscated a nut from Squirrel #1’s domain?
“Where’d my nut go?” he seems to be saying. Squirrel #1 is hyper, scampers to a tree, circles around its trunk, and then disappears into the tree canopy.
I imagine a squirrel conversation in the canopy:
“Betty. Sid just moved in on my turf. He’s the greediest squirrel in our berg. Even worse, the bluebirds must have a nest around here. They’re bogarting our chestnuts. Do we have enough nuts for Thanksgiving? Check the pantry.”
“Oh, Lenny. You know that I do.” Betty opens the tree pantry. Empty shells spill out.
Lenny is panicked. “OMG. Who got to them? Was it the blue jays or that greedy Sid?”
Betty shrugs. “Suck it up. We’ll get by.”
“Young Sammy will have to help. Where is the boy?”
“Last time I saw Sammy he was chasing his tail,” says Betty
“What? I thought only dogs chased their tails.”
“Chalk it up to adolescence, Lenny. Let it go.”
Okay, this may not have been the scenario in the tree canopy. And there may be no juvie squirrel named Sammy. But if there is, he should watch his back. The blue jays may move up the food chain and prey on him.
It is a Halloween like no other.
Skeletons love nothing more than to wave at us as we take walks, drive by, or ride bikes. Skeletons wave from Adirondack chairs, Barcaloungers, hammocks.
Skeleton families group together in rockeries. Mama Skeleton holds Baby Skeleton on her lap. Papa Skeleton digs out skeleton hands from the earth. Junior Skeleton hangs out with Doggie Skeleton who holds a bone in his mouth.
Skeleton sporting shades leans back in a chair holding a red drink. Kool-Aid? Somehow, I don’t think so. I sense this is Alcoholic Skeleton. Perhaps family life got to him? Maybe he needed Al-Anon?
Solo Skeleton swings from a tree swing wearing an Audubon cap.
Skeleton on porch holds a pair of binoculars: “The better to see you with, My Dear.”
Skeletons hang from rooftops, climb trees, drape themselves around lamp posts. Skeletons pirate a ship on a lawn. Skeletons dance on porches.
Skeletons, skeletons, skeletons.
Where do all these skeletons come from? Are people buying them on Amazon or do they have skeletons in the closet?
I try to hop on the skeleton bandwagon, but brick and mortar stores are sold out.
Clearly, a case of skulduggery.
Witches, ghosts, and vampires? Sorry, guys, but you are passe this year. Skeletons rule in Halloween 2020.
And rightly so: it seems the Grim Reaper has never shadowed our world so close with COVID, race riots, environmental meltdowns, United States presidential election turmoil.
As for the masks…I won’t go there.
Watch your back. And rest in peace.
George Orwell penned a fable, a tale called Animal Farm;
hogs rebelled against Farmer Jones, much to his alarm.
Though this is only fiction, I could almost suspend disbelief
when I read news of Corona, and its effect on the world’s beasts.
The unpeopled streets of Paris have attracted wild boars.
They root and grunt for food, but cafes have shut their doors.
Rats replace the revelers on silenced Bourbon Street;
perhaps they will host a Mardi Gras where humans do not meet.
Starved monkeys battle in Thailand, they fight over yogurt cups.
Corona has emptied Thai tourist squares; the primates now erupt.
Let’s not forget Welsh mountain goats who migrate into towns
they frolic and munch on hedges and play like a troop of clowns.
Beasts emboldened by Corona try out new behaviors
while we observe a brave new world, six feet away from neighbors.
What if the animal kingdom continues to revolt?
How do we know that pigs won’t fly? Or pick at our dead bolts?
But take a look at Venice – its canals are crystal clear.
Is Corona all that bad? Do we have so much to fear?
Cruise ships retreat from Venice while Gondolas skim with swans.
Perhaps our plague has benefits for us to ponder on.
We hear that COVID 19 is cleaning up our air;
from China to Los Angeles, the ozone might repair.
The noise pollution’s dwindled, bird songs are loud and clear.
Humans are more awake to birds – more silence helps us hear.
Life is stranger than fiction; of this I have no doubt.
If pigs could fly or pillage homes, I’ll give you all a shout.
George Orwell’s tale is curious, he had wild imagination.
What would he make of the deer in Japan who wander the subway stations?
It’s strange and curious to say the least;
Corona is a bat-shit crazy beast.
We mask up for shopping, put gloves on our hands,
to defend from the virus which lurks across lands.
They say the bug emerged from a bat in Wuhan.
It is stealthy, mysterious, but we must carry on.
We are humbled and learning we have no control.
Life’s game board has changed and it’s taking a toll.
Work, school, and fun are unsettled and vague
because of our century’s very first plague.
Stay 6-feet apart from man, woman and child;
go out and seek nature, but don’t get too wild.
Stay in your community, no beach ball games;
you’ll be warned or fined — that would be a shame.
When shopping for groceries, don’t hoard the TP.
Shit-storm or not, please save some for me.
Take a break from world news, bake some bread with your Mom.|
Paint your pet rock, dog, or cat, unless you have qualms.
Just look to the Italians for cheer and solidarity —
they sing and clap from balconies, refusing insularity.
Bad hair days are certain, but don’t give up hope.
Get scissors, watch YouTube, cut your own to cope.
Sun rises, sun sets, light and dark like to play;
tune into earth’s rhythms and treasure your day.
My 2019 encounter in the grocery store with a young man wearing a Venetian plague mask is so uncanny. Here we are in 2020 and I shop for groceries wearing a plague mask. Hand-sewn, for COVID19. It’s all funny in 2020. I wonder if Venetian plague masks are on-line for ordering? Here’s my sketch of the incident last year:
April 2019:
It is a lovely spring day. As I approach Metropolitan Market, I spot girl students wearing sandwich board signs to Save the Wolves. They want to add me to a list to endorse their cause. I smile, desist from lecturing that wolves like to deceive girls such as them and belong in fairy tales.
A tall, slender youth strides by. He wears a long, black leather coat, black boots with spurs. His face is hidden by a Venetian Plague Mask. It covers his entire head.
Huh?
Why the mask? What or who is he hiding from?
This is West Seattle, not Venice. The 21st century, not the Dark Ages.
Oh wait: maybe I’ve got that wrong.
He walks past the Save The Wolves girls into Met Market.
“Unusual, eh?” I call out to the girls.
“Maybe he is in a school play or something,” one of them says.
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
I had not thought of that.
No. My first thought, as I enter Met Market: is this guy packin’?
We live in strange times and what is this guy trying to say or prove with the Venetian Plague Mask, the dark leather coat, the boots? It’s not Halloween. Does he have a concealed weapon underneath the costume? Should I even go into the store?
Maybe I need to lighten up.
I grab a grocery cart, brave going into the store.
Plague Mask peers at me from over a pile of fruit as I squeeze an avocodo. He turns and walks down another aisle. The echo of his boots rings in my ears.
Now I have been to Venice but have never been to their carnivals where 16th century Plague Masks are part of the festivities. To my knowledge, Venetians would not be wearing them to grocery stores.
Again, I wonder: is this guy packin’? Will he pull out an AK47 and start shooting?
I better find the store manager.
“There’s a guy walking around here wearing a long, leather coat and a Plague Mask.”
The manager looks at me like I am daft. “A plague mask?”
“You know. Venice. Plague masks. Carnivals.”
“And?”
“Well, it’s weird. Kind of wonder about him. Hiding behind a mask. And his long coat. Maybe he has a concealed weapon. Just thinking about safety, community.”
“Maybe he’s an actor.”
“That’s what the wolf girls think.”
“The wolf girls?”
“Yeah. The ones that are outside the store.”
The manager shakes his head. “Lady. Is that the guy?” He points to the espresso stand.
The young man has removed the Plague Mask. He holds it in his hand as he chats with the barrista.
“Huh. OK. Just another day in West Seattle.” I smile at the manager and exit.
“Fairy tales,” I declare to the Save the Wolves girls. “That’s where wolves belong.”
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