"... that generosity might be the greatest pleasure there is."
— William Maxwell, So Long, See You Tomorrow
So, I got my Covid booster and spent the next 36 hours in bed. I mostly slept, and will again, soon, as I am still woozy. I was hit much harder than my mom who mostly hurt in her arm and shoulders (always). My brain was pretty much gone. I listened to the latest John Banville mystery, Snow, but was so in and out of consciousness that I had to keep rewinding when I woke up after a few hours. I probably missed some things.
Oct. 4, but just barely
I wrote this to a friend: Sometimes I look around at what I have here, the books, the clothes, the crafts projects and I wonder who in the hell I think I am. Would I have less stuff if I knew better?
I think the isolation is getting to me. As I have mentioned before, I just don't have many friends very nearby. On a weekend like this one, I spend my time at home. I think I have been out of the house once since Wednesday, for a silent Trader Joe's run yesterday. I had a long conversation with Martha which was satisfying yet helped remind me of my exhausting isolation.
It probably didn't help that I finished reading Ishiguro's latest, Klara and the Sun, which I rather liked when I was reading it, but felt flat and depressing by the end. I don't know what would make me feel better reading wise. As soon as I finished Snow, I started listening to I Alone Can Fix It: Donald Trump's Catastrophic Final Year, which is by far not a feel-good book. But it did engross me for a good four hours while I worked on my sewing projects.
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| Cats helping with sewing.1 |
Realistically, what do I think my life would be or should be given all the circumstances? I know it would be better if my yoga studio hadn't closed, that I practiced several days a week, maybe taught, and continued to build those relationships. I can't blame that on anyone, not even the Donald entirely. But maybe I wouldn't feel so bone-wearying trapped and exhausted on almost all levels.
When I have read about folks liberating themselves from their belongings, it always seems to happen in an epiphanic moment of shedding, as if living minimally were receiving instantaneous transmogrification. Whee, it is gone and I am no longer even eating pre-packaged foods! My carbon footprint is negative! Going out on a limb here, but I will bet it is a process. You know, so many times there is a process going on and you don't even know it. It would be helpful to know (does that mean choosing something? oh shit, I am bad at those decisions, too ... lately it seems I am bad at all decisions except maybe bad ones ...)
This digression comes late ... or early ... and I should get to bed so that I don't sleep too late and begin the dragging-and-behind-the-8-ball cycle again. I just sleep so deeply in the morning, and my dreams are generally so entertaining and make more sense than life. Also, I most often dream about friends so there is less isolation and loneliness there.
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| Cats helping with sewing.2 |
SOME QUESTIONS YOU MIGHT ASK
Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, like
the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.
The face of the moose is as sad
as the face of Jesus.
The swan opens her white wings slowly.
In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.
One question leads to another.
Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?
Like the eye of a hummingbird?
Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?
Why should I have it, and not the anteater
who loves her children?
Why should I have it, and not the camel?
Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?
What about the blue iris?
What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?
What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?
What about grass?
— Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems, Beacon Press, Boston, 1992
