Lately

That's what my work table looks like today. I'm writing Chapter 5 on my own machine while next to it,  the laptop loaned to me by the magazine for which I edit, is being remotely controlled by a tech person. In my peripheral vision, I see the cursor whizzing and zig zagging across the screen, opening and closing layers upon layers of windows, occasionally pausing for me to type in a user name or password, before the little white arrow goes careening off again. In a season of layoffs, it seems I've been retained, because they are updating my machine's operating system and installing the new InCopy/In Design software as well.

When I'm scarce here, it could be I'm having a good run with the book, and all my wordsmithing mojo is going there. That's the best case scenario. It could also be that I'm busy with the mundane errands of personal or household care, or I'm hosting house guests, or I'm doing whatever else requires my attention. The last few weeks, for example, in between top editing stories for the latest issue of the magazine, I've been doing new interviews for the book, running down those elements of the story that aren't quite yet in view. An agent once told me that if you're having trouble writing, it's because you don't have enough information, and ever since he said that, it's never not been true.

Lately, though, my silence here could also be because I'm just too heartsick or numbed out by the daily avalanche of disturbing news to form a useful thought about any of it. You know, I was about to tell you about two troubling items I read yesterday, and suddenly, I felt utterly depleted of the energy to go into it, to rehash the appallingness of it, and so I'm going to just let it go, and focus instead on all the marches that happened across the country yesterday, protesting the evil twin presidents, and tell you that the kids and their loves and the nieces, and Dolores, too, are all coming over for a Survivor watch party when the new season drops next week.

In a world where everyone seems to be just hunkered down, that's a bright spot that keeps me looking up. We can still gather with one another and order pizzas and watch a reality TV fastasy and talk and laugh and hold each other and revel in just being together. Lately, when I hug my children hello or goodbye, I take a good deep whiff of them, storing up their essence with all my senses. It's what gets me through.

This is one of my favorite photos of my beloveds, taken at our daughter's bridal shower last June. And now, every pair in that photo is married. Seems my two were babies just yesterday. Life does rumble on.

My loves

My son and his wife attend more weddings than anyone I have ever met. They are at this moment in Puerto Rico, attending yet another nuptial of friends. That photo was sent to me over Christmas, and I meant to post it, but never did. Today's the day.

We are witnesses

There's new snow on the ground this morning. This afternoon, the rain is supposed to start, and the snow will be gone by nightfall. I'm right here by the window, laptop open, trusting the muse to find me. I'm four chapters in, y'all. Believe me, that is something. 

My daughter sent me this view of her backyard in Brooklyn. She and her love have a far more immediate relationship with the snow. They can step out their back door and be in it, which is a special thing to be able to do in the city. They plan to hang fairy lights and fix up their rustic little porch come spring. They're imagining the Brooklyn version of back yard barbecues. Along with the picture, she texted me, "Dealing with a pretty bad work fire today." I texted back, "Call your brother!" Her brother is a firefighter. We thought it was funny anyway.

In answer to a question we are all asking, what can we do, I saw this poem by poet Joseph Fasano, who I follow on Bluesky.

RUMI

In a dream I asked him 

what can I do 

if I can't change it

and he pointed 

to the graves 

and whispered

witness it

Day-blind stars waiting with their light

I was walking around taking pictures of how the sun came into my house the other day, and I snapped this one of our kitchen windowsill, which is growing quite crowded. My son-in-law gave me that orange pitcher to hold flowers, because when he brought me blooms I could never find a vase. My mother gifted me that mortar and pestle made of Jamaican lignum vitae, and the gracious-like-her coasters that sit under it. My niece Dani gave me the plant for my last birthday, assuring me that it was resilient and needed hardly any care. And to hold the sorrel he made last Christmas, my husband picked up those capped bottles that harness the light just so. 

I woke up yesterday with a red rash on my cheeks, and at first couldn't figure out what I'd done to bring it on. Then I remembered I'd swiped a clear liquid over my disappearing eyebrows the day before, morning and evening as instructed, to coax them to grow. It was the only thing that could have accounted for the red flush seemingly out of nowhere. I texted my daughter to tell her about it. Send me a picture, she said, so I turned to the window and smized. The red flush is there, but I'm intrigued that it looks like I applied blush to my cheeks, and this morning, I am still wearing it, despite abandoning the clear liquid promise of thicker eyebrow and vigorously scrubbing my skin.  Also, yikes, my gray sure has grown in. Even so, that window, too, gives good light.

In the face of everything going on, including the very troubling news of boy engineers hacking into the government's Treasury Department, giving them control of social security payments, tax refunds, medicaid payments, federal salaries, program grants, and more, I thought I would share this gorgeous offering from Wendell Berry. I'm fairly sure I've posted it before, and that many of you already know this poem, but every line is so perfect for these times, so I'm sharing it again. I want to be able to find it easily when I need to be reminded there is peace all around us, if we remember to look.

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS

By Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me 

and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, 

I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things 

who do not tax their lives with forethought 

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars 

waiting with their light. For a time 

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.