In my pre-kick-to-the-gumption-engine (copyright MOZ) haze, waiting for that dense aroma of caffeine salvation to filter down the hall, a New York Times article headline caught my vaguely poetically-tuned eye, In the Pale of Winter… the rest of the article is far more prosaic, but humourous … Trump’s Tan Remains A State Secret. However, in the pale of winter continues to reverberate.
This definition of pale was the first that came to my mind, as in beyond the pale …
2a: one of the stakes of a palisade
3a: a space or field having bounds : ENCLOSURE The cattle were led into the pale.
b: a territory or district within certain bounds or under a particular jurisdiction British culture survived even within the Roman pale.
4: an area or the limits within which one is privileged or protected (as from censure) conduct that was beyond the pale
5: a perpendicular stripe on a heraldic shield
I did figure it out. Still, it does make for a resonant opening line to a poem or a story.
Clearly, or muddledly, I am walking into pale walls here. The rain is back, although gentler somehow. The coffee and cream tastes delicious, but beyond a momentary jolt the awareness is not exactly flowing in. Meandered over to versions of Meet Me in the Morning.
Well, that's it for that tender time when juxtapositions and fresh connections are butterfly flits. A bit of Black Crowes and Freddie King blues will take that right out of you. I need to make breakfast and my bed before I shuffle off to Long Beach for yoga.
Six days ago.
2/8/19
What if I started out the day thinking "life is good" ... that was even a challenge to type. At least the sun is shining. At least the coffee with real cream is delicious. At least I am warm. At least I am rested.
That's about all I have going for me.
This week was not as productive as I might have wanted, but that is ever my song. Janet turned 92 on Tuesday. As Tuesday is the regular day for Senior Yoga, we switched what passed for celebration to Wednesday. Tuesday was still busy for me with getting Janet on the road, going back for class, coming back to make her cake, going to my regular Tuesday night class, and then coming back at 10:00 to make Marcella Hazan minestrone and the cocoa-orange mascarpone frosting for the cake. I was up until 2:00 am working. Wednesday was a doctor's appointment for Janet, early, then a rush home to ice the cake, then rush to an interminable lunch. I collapsed with napping and The Sopranos after that.
One gets older without really realizing one no longer has all the capacity to work like crazy and stay up late. I have yet to learn to recalibrate how long it takes me to do things.
On the other hand, I took a (for me) new approach to cooking and tried to assemble and prepare my ingredients BEFORE I started cooking or baking. I know this is likely common sense to most of you, but not my general practice. So maybe you can learn some new things.
Yet again, another seven days has passed since my last post. Oh goodness.
I should likely cut my losses, post this.
COURAGE
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien
and you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love, simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love
and you will bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
— Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God, Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1975
It is awfully tough out there these days. As if the, and I use this term loosely, government of this county isn't depressing enough, there is the dark weather so many of us face, with varying degrees of actual cold (no complaining here). And I don't believe I have ever had so many close friends with so much serious illness and death so near to them.
The father of one of my closest friends is very near the end. I have known this man since I was 18. He has been in my life as a maker of cocktails as well as a recurring story for a very long time. I know all three of his children, his grandchildren (well, at least one of them quite well), his daughter-in-law is my sistra-of-the-heart. I have known the things this man did to shape my dear friend. So, although I am far away from the slowly beating heart of his end, I wait, in my heart, with those loved ones who wait so nearby. Ger would for sure wear carpet slippers.
 |
| Vera Paris gets under the covers sometimes. |
Six days ago.
2/8/19
What if I started out the day thinking "life is good" ... that was even a challenge to type. At least the sun is shining. At least the coffee with real cream is delicious. At least I am warm. At least I am rested.
That's about all I have going for me.
This week was not as productive as I might have wanted, but that is ever my song. Janet turned 92 on Tuesday. As Tuesday is the regular day for Senior Yoga, we switched what passed for celebration to Wednesday. Tuesday was still busy for me with getting Janet on the road, going back for class, coming back to make her cake, going to my regular Tuesday night class, and then coming back at 10:00 to make Marcella Hazan minestrone and the cocoa-orange mascarpone frosting for the cake. I was up until 2:00 am working. Wednesday was a doctor's appointment for Janet, early, then a rush home to ice the cake, then rush to an interminable lunch. I collapsed with napping and The Sopranos after that.
On the other hand, I took a (for me) new approach to cooking and tried to assemble and prepare my ingredients BEFORE I started cooking or baking. I know this is likely common sense to most of you, but not my general practice. So maybe you can learn some new things.
Yet again, another seven days has passed since my last post. Oh goodness.
I should likely cut my losses, post this.
COURAGE
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien
and you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love, simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love
and you will bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
— Anne Sexton, The Awful Rowing Toward God, Boston, Houghton Mifflin, 1975
It is awfully tough out there these days. As if the, and I use this term loosely, government of this county isn't depressing enough, there is the dark weather so many of us face, with varying degrees of actual cold (no complaining here). And I don't believe I have ever had so many close friends with so much serious illness and death so near to them.
The father of one of my closest friends is very near the end. I have known this man since I was 18. He has been in my life as a maker of cocktails as well as a recurring story for a very long time. I know all three of his children, his grandchildren (well, at least one of them quite well), his daughter-in-law is my sistra-of-the-heart. I have known the things this man did to shape my dear friend. So, although I am far away from the slowly beating heart of his end, I wait, in my heart, with those loved ones who wait so nearby. Ger would for sure wear carpet slippers.
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