joy unbound

Because it is so fragile, I am reluctant to put this into any container, even something as sturdy as words.


It is joy.  A release that has come, and I fear explaining will destroy it.  


But I will try, a little.


The Year of Mourning is officially over.  Not grieving, no; but my view must now change, moving from death to life, from the past to the future.  To accomplish this, I am making lists, and soon I hope to act upon them.  About my relationships (a question mark, of course); about moving from my house (within a year, and this is already in motion); about my writing (stuck, but I have those lists...)


I wish I could say more. But for now, I will simply cradle what is, as I once cradled grief.


Candace

birthday boy

Yesterday I bought a 2011 calendar.  A big decision, every year.  Into what container will I be counting down my life?


This year's was a plain, just-the-facts day-by-day in a faux medieval binding.  In truth, I didn't buy it until May and paid 50% off the normal price, surprised that the rest of the world was already five months into another year.  Looking back, a lot of white space remains.  


For 2011, I wanted something that, in itself, would be sufficient; a Sabbath calendar, existing outside of time.  So I rejected the dailys filled with flowers or famous paintings; ditto for those designed for writers, for runners, for procrastinators (I'll think about this one).


In the end I chose one new to me:  Chris Hardman's Ecological Calendar: A New Way to Experience Time. While small print follows the Gregorian Calendar, front-and-center is a reminder that our days are more than "a march of numbers, a business machine telling us when to be where."


This calendar reminds us where we already are, infinitesimally small creatures on a tiny plant circling a star that is one of 200 billion in our Milky Way galaxy, and the Milky Way is one of at least 200 billion galaxies in a universe about 13.7 billion years old.


This is not to say we are insignificant, or that how we use our time is trivial. Even if the day is "blank," we are part of something ancient, magnificent, and beyond our ultimate comprehension.


So I think these thoughts as I weep on Rich's birthday. Not because his life was so small, because I now understand how one life, deeply lived with another, can contain it all.  And I don't think it's a coincidence that this day which we call Tuesday, 9 November, is in the calendar marked as "ForestMulch" in the season "Fall of the Leaf."  


And a sweet-fragranced rose is in front of me, picked this morning, the last of the season.


Candace

serendipity

A few days ago, a friend said she was having a great day.  Everything was serendipity; it appeared that no matter what needed doing, it would happen in a most excellent way.  And as each event confirmed this belief, her confidence grew.  When she accidently knocked over a portable heater, I murmured well, maybe not everything...

"No," she insisted. "See?  It didn't catch on fire!  It didn't break!"

I laughed, and agreed.

"But why can't this be all the time?" she said.

I was in a poetic/pontifical mood.  It can, I said.  Become a lover with serendipity.  Then, even when you're not living together, you will yearn for the other, have the qualities of the other, you will want to hang out together more and more.

"Hey, you're good," she said.

But, as is usual these days, I was also talking to myself, and when finished not quite sure what I was talking about.  Days past, with a flesh-and-blood lover?  Or now, except that my lover is:  Grief, First Name; Loneliness, Surname.  And Rich is this lover's middle name, wrapped in the midst of first and last.

I don't want to leave this lover.  I do want to learn how to live with what is tearing off piece after piece of me, breaking and catching fire.  

Candace

  

voting

The election day worker stops me as soon as I get inside the door.


"Your district?"


I'm blank.  Did I know this two years ago?


He points to a map spread over the table.


"Where do you live?" he asks.


I point, vaguely, and give my address.  


"That's north of here," I say, meaning the polling place.


"No, that's south," he says, directing me to the proper table.


I give the next election worker my name and address.  She opens the book.  I don't notice my name, but the one adjacent, the one with the unmistakable precise signature.


Richard S. Galik


It has been a hard morning anyway, and now I try not to drip on government documents.


In elections past, his fresh signature would have been there ahead of mine; he always voted early, before work.  Today it will remain blank.


"Sign here," she says.


I do.


She frowns.


"This isn't your signature," she says.


Huh?


She points at my official marking; it's legible, must be from years ago, with no resemblance to my new scrawl.


"Do you have ID?" she asks.


She scrutinizes the driver's license, still not fully convinced, I can tell.  I've changed since that photo was taken, too.


"Do you want to make this your new signature?" she says, at last.  "So you won't be asked next time."


"By then it will change again," I say.


She tears off the ballot and hands it over, satisfied she has done her duty and is now rid of this odd duck.


I fill in the circles.  I obediently then proceed to the scanning machine that will eat my opinion and confirm it was digested.


But a woman is ahead of me, in prolonged conversation with another election day worker.  They're discussing the woman's watch, how pretty it is, where did you get it, oh, I've had it forever...


"Get a move on!" a man's voice bellows, behind me.  "You're holding up the line!"


The election worker jumps.


"I hope you know her," she says to him.


"For 47 years I've lived with her.  I can say anything I want," he says.


I feed the form to the machine, and say nothing.


Two years ago we voted for change and hope.  Change?  Rich and I got it.  Hope?  I'm on my own. 


Candace