Whorl

My head has been filled with a buzzing noise, of withheld worry. The enormity of formless dread looming above, seeping through every corner and dark crack. It has silenced words, both those too miserable to speak, and those too effulgent to drift down. Mustn't grab, nothing to stomp. I float between, as this week floats between two holidays pinned up paper gaiety and sticky tape hope.

I understand the intense desire to foretell the future, when the rolling darkness crashes around the world, and madness threatens. False prophets abound, liars leer from every corner, the ground beneath my feet wobbles.

But then, this is a constant, that we live in a spinning, shifting whorl. When nothing in my life was to be trusted and chaos reigned, perhaps I wouldn't have minded, nor even much noticed. Only since finding my island on its foundation of bedrock am I feeling the intensity of the gale.

How exactly does a sea anchor work? That may be the metaphor I need. Research time.



Sea anchors and drogues.

Huh. Well, yes. I want to slow down, not be driven into the shore, nor crushed by following waves.


Inside, all is calm love, warm cats.

I understand how the elderly in their small houses stayed in war zones, refused evacuation. There comes a time when starting again is worse than risking death. When the one thing you can't give for your heart's desire, is your heart. The one thing you can't give to protect your life, is your home.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry it has to end like this, but then it always was going to end like this, really." And their grandchildren frantic to save them. Yet, I too would prefer to make a last stand, because it's the only place to stand in a life that never felt stable. The ducklings float away, but this rooted tree accepts its fate.

I remember I hid what I valued from my parents, because I didn't want them to take it away or ruin it. To live among lies and constantly showing one's obverse to maintain privacy and sanity. While striving not to become a liar myself, and to look at the truth with courage and integrity. I flailed away among the debris, not even knowing I was searching for home. Or that there would be a home to search for. I have metamorphosed, and would not change back even if I could.


My soul is covered in stretch marks and scars, but it is mine own. And we wave across the waves.

Repost from last year.

Got up at my usual time for work. Not very dark, meaning - snow. Figured if I got out and shoveled, I'd feel better, so I snagged clothes, not caring if socks matched, slid into boots and coat, mittens and hat. There was enough snow for the power shovel, but at 0600 on Christmas morning, it seemed a bit... loud. So I stuck with the low-tech one, and cleared the 4-6" accumulated. Took it past both next door neighbor's houses. Tired, a bit sore, but in a much better mood, I stripped off the wet pants and made tea. Dylan was stirring by then, unaware I'd even been out. He'd been woken up by Moby standing on him, purring loudly in his ear, much earlier, after putting out food, managed to get back to a deep sleep.



We both went out, with power shovel, and cleared the parking space and all the sidewalks, part of the driveway, about 0930. Still snowing, but cleared and salted areas collected very little new, actually melting by noon. Eight inches, but not very wet snow, just the bottom inch or so. Otherwise, pretty fluffy.

Dylan's parents, brother and wife with two nephews arrived for lunch. Dylan cooked enchiladas of great flavor. Youngest, baby nephew, for some reason attached himself to me. I rather like holding babies, so this was fine, if somewhat unexpected. Dylan a bit stressed doing all the final food preparation. Older nephew, not quite 3, running around, chasing cats, but SIL watching, and I wasn't concerned. He focused on the christmas tree, handling the ornaments with such gentleness. Wonderful to see the old ornaments appreciated. Cats not much bothered, although Moby decided to retire to the bedroom, and Eleanor stayed on the stool in the music room, with occasional forays to meet and greet. Nephew managed to feed her a few treats, which was fun to watch. He also enjoyed the toy cars I have in the toybox (drawer, to be precise), and the tiny toy train I got for $1 after Easter*.

Dylan's dad got the red comfy chair, and I gave him a footstool. His mom held babynephew. Everyone seemed comfortable and enjoyed themselves. Older nephew objected to leaving, which I took as a high compliment. Dylan's dad calling me "wonderful" (maybe because of marinated artichoke hearts for him) was nice as well.

We've been lighting a menorah, not saying the prayers, but hoping for light. Or reason and compassion. I checked with my boss, who is Jewish, how bad the cultural appropriation would be, and she assured me she would not be offended, so we made one. Bit of wood, drilled holes, already had the candles. I certainly do this with respect.


And an oil lamp, too. DIY Diya. Next year, even more ecumenical. No, that's not right, since that's only christiana. Multicultural seems weak sauce. Suggestions? Inclusive, yes, of course. Funny, those of us who live in mixed societies are comfortable with that, and those who've never dealt with different cultures get very upset about it. Really, it's fine. Good for the soul.

Multifaith?



Well, start there.

I like to think we make people welcome here, a kind of home grown comfort, a minimum of fuss. When nephew upset a tray table, but nothing broke, no one yelled. I shrug, even if something had broken, or needing cleaning up, so what? We break things, we make messes, the next step is to clean up, not blame or shout. Especially not at small children.

Dylan thanked me for wanting a house where we could have guests, and they'd feel at ease. I didn't plan this, or imagine this. Came as a wonderful surprize, that people would love coming here and how much we would enjoy having them feel welcome. I had no idea. Corollaries to Home.


We are planning a New Year's Day (or day after) potluck for the comic guys.




*First seen here.

My fellow citizens, another petition.

https://www.needtoimpeach.com

What's more, tweeter was censoring the link to this.

Polydactyly

Through the twelve days of christmas we did some surgery...

12 carpal tunnels
11 knee debridements
10 hardware outs
9 rotator cuffs
8 cheilectomies
7 lacerations
6 clavicles

5 O R I Fs!

4 infected wounds
3 tendons
BILATERAL shoulders

And a hand with a Polydactyly!

Moths

Several weeks ago, the Thanksgiving weekend, we got out winter clothing. I'd done a slapdash job last fall putting it away. The moths took full advantage. More sweater losses, and we finally got rid of a lot of worn stuff. Cleaned to the corners of three closets, washed everything we kept, the sting of eucalyptus and lavender everywhere. I was still feeling awful, this took what little energy I had left.




But we made progress clearing the workshop area, and created a pantry, properly boxed up the summer clothing, and rid ourselves of those troublesome moths. Would be so much easier if we did these cleanings right before the big, civic Neighborhood Cleanup, but that'll never happen.

Slowly got the tree up. Decided instead of the angel, the tree would have Shiva.



Here also, is Sam Two-Spirit, Bear who Listens.



And our lovely felines, warm and sleepy.

Ways

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
BY WALLACE STEVENS


I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Sam

We'd gone in for a small box of extra nice christmas cards. We want to send a very few, particularly to our two main contractors, who gave us such a lovely gift of their skill beyond what can be paid for in money. It's a stationary, gift shop called Tabula Rasa that has been around since I got to town, in 1985. Owners a lovely gay couple, just the one store. Smells lovely, too. Cards and handmade paper, curios, soaps, pens and candles, a gloriously gorgeous little place. And, this year, stuffed bears.


I was quite taken, as I often am with well made stuffed creatures. These were exceptional, with beanbag paws, intelligent expressions, flopped across the backs of chairs. I took Dylan in later, just to show. Hinted heavily that we could maybe do something for each other this christmas...

Well, we both know that on the rare occasions that I want a gift, I must be pretty explicit, and I'm fine with that.

Two days ago, he gives me the bear, because neither of us can stand to hide a gift from each other, and we are also fine with this.

A photo will come later.

I held the bear, big enough for a solid hug, never let it out of touch the whole evening. And then held bear through the night, a comfort immense. Smells of Tabula Rasa.

Hoping bear would tell me bear's name. And slowly, through the night, it came.

For bear was she and he, Two Spirit. Sam. Samuel and Samantha. In the morning I looked up the name. Meaning, Listens. Bear who listens. Yes.

Yes, I know, this is a reflection, not the creation of stuffed material. But also a shadow of the maker, and the spirit of a journey. This is a story, understand.

And it whispered to me of Smokey the Bear, a toy given on a trip to the Smokey Mountains when I was perhaps six years old. And how I surrounded myself with all available stuffed animals to protect me from the dark and the angry shouting heard through the heating vents at night. And I would talk to them to keep myself company in my loneliness.

And I sobbed into Sam Two Spirit's fur, and was comforted.

Eleanor pressed at my back, her own cat.

I cannot hug a cat all night, as they must move and breathe, and get a choice. A stuffed bear is all yours. Eleanor honors me with her presence, and I am grateful.

Dylan is kind, and gives me a bear to hold at night. I can't hold him all night either, he needs his sleep, as do I.


Sam Two Spirit bear is under my left arm as I write, a presence. Life is bigger than we know. It goes on after us, and streams out before us.

Percolation

The world in spasm, everything changing in ways we try to imagine, then try not to. Long past worry, knowing that much will be broken, destroyed. But nothing lasts, and nothing lost, only mislaid and changed. Everything dies, and is recycled. Revolution in the air. Many still not acknowledging the extent, which is human and normal, to just keep on existing while the world burns.

Because if it doesn't, and we survive, then we need it all still working. So we hold on to normal, even if just a little bit, so we can regrow it later.

I intended to write more specifically, but I find now that I can't. This small story needs a bit more percolating.