Today, a long line of my old ladies would tell you, is a dreary day. Nevermind that we need the inch of slow cold rain. And yes there are a few bent-necked daffodils in the front garden. But the birds at the feeder stations are mostly starlings, and the entire day is just, well, kind of dark…
Sometimes you just have to make your own spring.
A friend says dress in colours; it helps. So that’s how I started: bright spring-leaf green and vivid blue. A real stretch for a basic black girl.
And then my FAVOURITE tea, in a tea set given me by dear friends many years ago. Plus a pink & white amaryllis cut from the flowering plants in the breakfast room, and stuck in a bud vase. How happy-making is that? You can feel the endorphins kicking in!
So this is my advice on a chilly, drippy day: make something warm, in a pretty cup. Add flowers, if possible. Then go sit and look out on the grey that means spring is allllmoooost here. It helps. Honest.
I saw this on FB the other day, and was mesmerised. Not simply this photo — I’ve taken several similar ones myself. But by what happened next.
Jarbas Agnelli saw music, notes on a staff. I do too, and have written poems wondering what that music might sound like. But Agnelli didn’t just wonder — or write a poem about wondering. He wrote the song.
What would happen if every day I moved beyond wondering to doing? If the curiousity I see in my grandson’s eyes were mine? How might my life shift, and what would my soundtrack sound like? Blackbirds on a wire, against a cloudy sky…?
Here is Agnelli’s Birds On The Wires. A thank-you to R. B. Smart, who told the story behind the music.
An old and dear friend lost her husband yesterday. Walking together to his work, she must have watched as he fell to the ground with a heart attack, his second in two years. He was dead by the time they arrived at the hospital.
He was younger than my husband, only a few years older than I am. And somehow, those two things — my friend’s loss of her beloved, and his relative youth — make this very personal.
All death is personal, of course. To someone. Donne was absolutely right: Any man’s death diminishes me. Except that it doesn’t feel the same. The death of most distant strangers is just that — distant. Completely off our radar. By 2:30 today, there had been about 94,000 deaths across the world. And I felt none of them like this one yesterday.
Life is always a gamble. We have no idea what’s just around the corner. Another friend told her FB friends yesterday that her routine colonscopy (she’s not even 50) turned up pre-cancerous polyps. Had she put off the colonoscopy a few more years, the polyps would have killed her. I could tell a similar story.
I like to think I live my life fully — trying hard to pay attention to both the moments and the spaces in between each one. But my family is prone to all kinds of bad health (Alzheimer’s, diabetes, Parkinson’s, heart disease, kidney disease: we should really not reproduce!), and I know my time may well be shorter than I’d like.
But then, isn’t it always?
So I’m telling each of you: take a moment to go outside and look up. Breathe deeply, then go hug the nearest loved one. Send a card (did that today), email a note. Phone a friend. But don’t take this day — or any other — for granted. Time runs aways from us.
It shouldn’t still be happening, but it is: modern day debtor’s prisons. At least in Alabama, where writer Jacob Denney’s story for the Southern Poverty Law Center takes place. A young man, first victimised by a shooting, then hit with a slow-down at work, is ultimately sentenced to jail because he can’t pay his traffic tickets and fines.
Say what? You’re going to sentence a man with a newborn daughter to 54 days in jail? (One day in jail per $50/ debt.) Because, basically, he’s unlucky and poor?
I thought this kind of legal punishment of poverty went out with the Puritans, but apparently it remains alive and well. At least in Alabama. And I’m certain there are many people who agree with it. All I can see is a boy whose mother tried to give the judge a note from the young man’s employer, stating that work had been slow, but would pick up, and the prisoner would be able to pay something soon.
The judge refused to even look at the paper. That’s how little the anti-poor system cares about its victims.
I lived for a month on food stamps, when I was in my early 20s. I had an accident, couldn’t work, and at that age had no savings. My folks helped with my rent, but I had a couple of payments to make, and food was the first thing to go. I understand there being NO MONEY. My mother used to tell me about being so poor she only had two dresses — one to wash, one to wear. Day after day.
We used to say, in America, that being poor was nothing to be ashamed of. And that anyone could rise above rocky circumstances. Unless the law labels them a felon, and puts them in jail. For traffic tickets and fines. So that on every work application thereafter, they have to check ‘served jail time.’
This can’t be how any faith councils us to treat the poor. Can it? Can it?