I - ONE AT A TIME
What will you do with this bright day that glares through the south window
and makes you open your sleep-sanded eyes?
(You only get one at a time.)
All night the wind tossed the garden. The dust is giddy with it. See it whirling and sparkling in the light?
(Dust to dust.)
Make a space, as you must each day, that fits you well. If you
feel hot and scratchy in this suit, make another.
Cool your skin with shade and scent of blossom.
Why do I keep that old thing? Why do I use a tablecloth that is falling to pieces, faded, and stained with years of picnics, breakfasts, and dinners? It has served the family well, for generations, but isn't it time to get rid of it? Probably.
Responsibility for family documents is a heavy burden. There is so much. So many receipts, records of transactions, legal documents that won't be denied a place in history. But what really matters?
I have been shifting living space for eight years to accommodate my Dad's paper trail. I've sorted through it countless times, trying to decipher what is necessary to keep. But why? He's dead. My mother is dead. His second wife is dead, as is her daughter and anyone who wants any of the documents that validated her life.
I came across a letter I wrote when I was about twelve. My mother was in the hospital, and I was missing her.My dad wrote a note to my junior high explaining that I had to leave school early every day for two weeks (? I think it was that long) because I was needed at home. I had a brother who was just a toddler. I can't remember who cared for him while I was in school in the mornings, but it was my job to come home and help in the afternoons. I don't remember how I got home, either, because my school was a bus ride away. But I was happy to help.
I lived for a long time with someone who was beautiful, winsome, intelligent, persuasive, and mostly dysfunctional. Because I was her child and I loved her with the pure passion a child has for its mother, I wanted to be like her. I thought her moods should be my moods, her pain my pain.
In 1957 I was fifteen. Eisenhower, a member of the Lost Generation, was President. He had recently agreed to defend Iran, Pakistan and Afghanistan against invasion. Nixon, a member of the Greatest Generation, was his Vice President. The Civil Rights movement was just beginning. Newspaper headlines revealed there was a Mad Bomber on the loose and the Ku Klux Klan was making big trouble, We were in the midst of the Cold War with daily reminders of the nuclear bomb threat. We practiced drop drills. People were building bomb shelters.
It is that time of year when there are big changes coming. Some things are replanting themselves without much fanfare. Some are spectacular -- and they may be where you least expect to find them.
The daily mull generally deals in questions which do not have final, simple, definitive answers.
This time is almost an exception.
Some time ago, I posted a little essay on Grabel's Law (you can find it here) :
"Two is not equal to three, even for very large values of two."
I see that Ken has the daily mull up and running again, with a few improvements. One of those improvements is a picture of the blogger, next to their post.
This presents a couple of problems where I'm concerned—and I'm going to need a little help from my readers.
The problems I spoke of are:
