In love with the sounds of my morning coffee
Chilly air teases sleep-warmed skin. The sun—whose rays will, two weeks from now, be an awesome display of life-giving, life-taking power—smiles gently across the lover’s sheets of the eastern sky. Oh there you are.
I drink in this dawn, this chorus.
Steaming darkness slides down my throat and floods my senses, awakening gratitude—for my daughter whose grace words can’t do justice, for friends old and new who have me when I flail, for family whose love is unquestionable, for this spot, for nourishment and exercise, for discernment and growth, for humor, for rage, for sorrow, for balance. For innumerable acts of kindness, compassion, and sacrifice laced into the fabric of our shared tragedy, I am humbled. My heart swells.
I spy a cardinal
Yes, I’m afraid. Even out here, I wash my hands raw and disinfect my door handles and steering wheel and stove top and floor again and again. Habits formed for when I have to open my loop. Despite my refusal at their knocking, images of loved ones succumbing behind closed doors press against the opaque glass of my imagination. I dismiss, too, the goad that rises in bleak moments like a sob, Alone, always.
My soul aches at recent and impending losses. Around the globe, suffering abounds. It always has. I fear for a world where an invisible terror that knows no borders is required to shed light on the inextricable link between the tenuous nature of our perch and the magnitude of the inequity among us. And while the virus causing this pandemic we’re living through may not see rich and poor, its systemic effects will. I can’t fully grasp the horror that menaces in the cages that “house” far too many of us—immigration detention centers, prisons, hovels, shelters, cycles of poverty. I fear the illuminated essentiality of those of us toiling, unprotected, in fields to keep everyone in produce will be overshadowed by panic, but not for them, should they fall. The sad small massive failure of a health care system driven by profit is hard to fathom—inability to protect those risking their lives for all of us on another front line because of lack of gloves and masks.
I fear the link is not what far too many will see. History begs to differ. And light’s a tricky thing. What remains in shadow depends, like so much, on the red wheelbarrow.
Good morning, Ruby
My morning coffee, though, is fearless. It’s all feathery breeze, watercolor rays, and songs—love songs. These birds, so says my newly acquired bird id app, are mostly male. A northern cardinal, a house finch, a mourning dove, a silky flycatcher all wooing potential mates. What greater hopefulness than a serenade lilted into the dewy dawn!
A tree for two
This, too, is a habit I’m building—the fortitude of hope. Into my routine, I’ll weave connection and laughter and music and awareness of the goodness also illuminated. I’ll remind myself who I want to be and build my emotional wellness so I am able.
May balance keep us afloat. May we connect to the realities of suffering in ways that open our eyes to what’s brought to light and to what we can and must do to protect each other and those who protect us. May we shore up others and accept help with equal grace. May we seek and share and replicate daily levity and bravery and kindness and compassion and all other sundry forms of love and hopefulness. May we warble songs of love into the world.
***
Signing off from the southern Arizona desert (south of Tucson). I’ll be leaving soon, as the heat of summer is fast approaching. I’ll keep you posted as I journey northward, slowly and carefully, to the home of my sweet cousin in Oregon. Thanks for reading!
And if you’re still doing so, I’d love to see comments on / links to: What’s building up your hope?
Love to all!
Holly
***
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
—William Carlos Williams