Resilient (Rising Appalachia)

As discussed previously, my family is writing in, and passing around, a journal as a tangible way to capture our thoughts, dreams, and fears through essays, drawings, poems, and songs.  Here is my entry from a few days ago:

I find myself in a pendulum between "this too shall pass" and "these are the end times" but, I am the MOTHER, so it is my Job to stay strong and hold it all together when everyone around me is losing their sh*t.  That is what I do, as at various times my family has experienced stitches and broken bones... MRSA hospitalization... an emergency C-section... prostate cancer surgery.  My default mechanism is to envision myself as the voice of calm and reason, their advocate and protector, asking the right questions, buffering between them and the healthcare system, sleeping in super-uncomfortable recliners.

Once the crisis had passed and things were back to "normal", I allowed myself to freak the f*ck out, finally able to fall apart with the tragic What-Ifs swirling around in my head, all the bullets dodged, the there-but-for-the-grace-of-god flipside scenario.  Poetry is one of my many coping mechanisms (thankyoujesus for Maggie Smith:  the poet, not the actress!).  Donning my She-Ra cape, rattling my Wonder Woman bracelets, and conjuring the Shield of Invincibility to keep my loved ones, and myself, safe throughout this storm and chaos.

SONG:  Resilient by Rising Appalachia (major thanks to Fred for the heads-up on this song.  Wow!)

BOOK:  Welcoming the Unwelcome: Wholehearted Living in a Brokenhearted World by Pema Chodron

POEM:  The Mother by Maggie Smith

The mother is a weapon you load

yourself into, little bullet.

The mother is glass through which

you see, in excruciating detail, yourself.

The mother is landscape.

See how she thinks of a tree

and fills a forest with the repeated thought.

Before the invention of cursive

the mother is manuscript.

The mother is sky.

See how she wears a shawl of starlings,

how she pulls the thrumming around her shoulders.

The mother is a prism.

The mother is a gun.

See how light passes through her.

See how she fires.

QUOTE:  "I never said I wanted a 'happy' life but an interesting one. From separation and loss, I have learned a lot. I have become strong and resilient, as is the case of almost every human being exposed to life and to the world. We don't even know how strong we are until we are forced to bring that hidden strength forward." ~ Isabel Allende

When I Get to Heaven (John Prine)

The family of John Prine says that the legendary singer-songwriter has been hospitalized since Thursday after a "sudden onset of COVID-19 symptoms." 

According to the family's statement, Prine, 73, was intubated on Saturday, "and continues to receive care, but his situation is critical."

"This is hard news for us to share. But so many of you have loved and supported John over the years, we wanted to let you know, and give you the chance to send on more of that love and support now. And know that we love you, and John loves you."


My friend/college roommate Linda texted me a few hours ago with the news.  We had just seen him together this past MLK weekend at the 30A Songwriter Festival in Santa Rosa Beach FL.  My friend Fred texted me shortly thereafter.  I had no idea until then.  I am distraught, and every f*cking purple candle in my house is ablaze. Please god let JP be okay and, if not, let him go smoothly and peacefully "into that good night".

My one-time next door neighbor and longtime dear buddy Dan gave me the eponymous John Prine album when it was first released, in 1972, on vinyl of course.  I played the h*ll out of that disc.  Side A, Side B, lather, rinse, repeat.  I knew every word to every song.  I still own his entire catalog on vinyl, even though we've loaned our turntable out to our sons. I have seen him live a double-handful of times.  Such a brilliant lyricist.  Inspired by the 6+ minute video below, here are some of my favorites: 

Well, a question ain't really a question
If you know the answer too. 
~ Far From Me

A bowl of oatmeal tried to stare me down... 
and won 
~ Illegal Smile

Some cowboy from Texas
Starts his own war in Iraq 
~ Some Humans Ain't Human

wondering how a man could send a child actor
to visit in the land of the wind chill factor. 
~ Sabu Visits the Twin Cities Alone

And all the news just repeats itself
Like some forgotten dream that we've both seen. 
~ Hello in There

Now Jesus don't like killin'
No matter what the reason's for 
~ Your Flag Decal Won't Get You Into Heaven Anymore

I knew that topless lady had something up her sleeve
~ Spanish Pipedream

The cannibals can catch me and fry me in a pan
Long as I got my woman 
~ Aw Heck

Sweet songs never last too long on broken radios. 
~ Sam Stone

I could go on...  :-)


In this short film, Prine spends a typical afternoon driving around Nashville while talking about his journey from midwestern mailman to career songwriter. He plays an emotional version of “Summer’s End,” from The Tree of Forgiveness, his first album in 13 years, while fans including Dan Auerbach, Rosanne Cash and Todd Snider share their favorite Prine lyrics.

And this New Yorker Tree of Forgiveness review



SONG:  When I Get to Heaven by John Prine

BOOK:  John Prine:  Beyond Words by John Prine

POEM:  Wanting Sumptuous Heavens by Robert Bly

No one grumbles among the oyster clans,
And lobsters play their bone guitars all summer.
Only we, with our opposable thumbs, want
Heaven to be, and God to come, again.
There is no end to our grumbling; we want
Comfortable earth and sumptuous Heaven.
But the heron standing on one leg in the bog
Drinks his dark rum all day, and is content.

QUOTE:  "The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake." ~ Kurt Vonnegut

Blue River (Eric Andersen)

All this talk of coronavirus.  Lately I find myself in a pendulum between "this too shall pass" and "these are the end times".  Today, I need a palate cleanser.

Brian Doyle.  Who here has heard of him?  I am embarrassed to say that he did not even appear on my radar until a few weeks ago.  I can't recall where we crossed paths, except I think it was a Goodreads pop-up for One Long River of Song:  "If you liked that, then you will love this." I immediately set out to find everything about him, and discovered he died a few years ago, of brain cancer, at the age of 60. Where had he been all my life?!?  I felt like I had missed the proverbial boat but, then again, through the magic of books and the Internet, he was now my new best friend.

I immediately Amazoned (yes, I made it into a verb!) him to my friend Roxanne, as a "belated* birthday present.  I had him Amazoned to me, so that I could transport him across county lines, and deliver him to Dar in St. Augustine as an *early* birthday present.  I want to give this book to everyone I know.  It is my new love language:

"Brian Doyle lived the pleasure of bearing daily witness to quiet glories hidden in people, places and creatures of little or no size, renown, or commercial value, and he brought inimitably playful or soaring or aching or heartfelt language to his tellings.  A life’s work, One Long River of Song invites readers to experience joy and wonder in ordinary moments that become, under Doyle’s rapturous and exuberant gaze, extraordinary." ~ David James Duncan

And this, from Doyle himself, as a brief bio/teaser:

Brian Doyle lives in Portland, Oregon, where he is inundated by the laundry of three teenagers and finds that the deeper thickets of marriage are more interesting than the open woodlands of serial affairs. 

Hmmm.  We should all do this; construct a mission statement in one sentence, less than 50 words, to encompass our life, hopes, and dreams.

SusanM lives in Pembroke Pines, Florida, where she is in a constant struggle to balance her Pollyanna self with her Eeyore alter-ego, and whose brain is so full of song lyrics that she can hardly remember her To Do List.

Your turn...  :-)

P.S.  All this to say:  READ THE BOOK!


SONG:  Blue River by Eric Andersen

BOOK:  One Long River of Song by Brian Doyle

POEM:  What Do Poems Do? by Brian Doyle

I was, no kidding, a visiting writer in a kindergarten recently,
And the children asked me many wry and hilarious questions,
Among them is that your real nose? and can you write a book
About a ruffed grouse, please? But the one that pops back into
My mind this morning was what do poems do? Answers: swirl
Leaves along sidewalks suddenly when there is no wind. Open
Recalcitrant jars of honey. Be huckleberries in earliest January,
When berries are only a shivering idea on a bush. Be your dad
For a moment again, tall and amused and smelling like Sunday.
Be the awful wheeze of a kid with the flu. Remind you of what
You didn’t ever forget but only mislaid or misfiled. Be badgers,
Meteor showers, falcons, prayers, sneers, mayors, confessionals.
They are built to slide into you sideways. You have poetry slots
Where your gills used to be, when you lived inside your mother.
If you hold a poem right you can go back there. Find the handle.
Take a skitter of words and speak gently to them, and you’ll see.

QUOTE:  "Modern storytellers are the descendants of an immense and ancient community of holy people, troubadours, bards, griots, cantadoras, cantors, traveling poets, bums, hags, and crazy people." ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

American Tune (Paul Simon)

What if the Virus is the Medicine? by Jonathan Hadas Edwards and Julia Hartsell

The emerging pandemic is already a watershed of the early 21st century: things won’t ever be the same. Yet for all that the havoc that the virus is wreaking, directly and indirectly, it may also be part of the bitter medicine the global body needs.

How could adding another crisis to an already crisis-ridden planet possibly be medicinal?

Before we explore that question, we want to be clear: our intent is not to downplay the severity or minimize the importance of lives lost to this disease. Behind the mortality figures lie very real pain and grief, and these numbers, often discussed so casually, are personal, representing the potential loss of our parents, elders, teachers, dance companions, grandmothers or immune-compromised friends.

Already, our hearts are breaking for the physical distance with our aging parents until we know if we’re infected. There’s not only a risk of losing beloveds in this time, but having to do so from afar. Our hearts are breaking for those who may die or suffer alone, without the touch of their loved ones. We honor death as a sacred passage, but we do not minimize death, suffering or sickness in the slightest.

We pray that each one who transitions from this virus (as from the many other deadly diseases, accidents, overdoses, murders, suicides, mass shootings, and on and on) be met with on the other side by unexpected blessing, connection, peace.

Neither are the economic implications to be taken lightly. Many in this country have already seen massive impact, and the recession has only begun. As always, those closest to the edge will be hit hardest. For some, a month sequestered in beauty could be a vacation.

Others have a few months before financial panic sets in. And for others living paycheck to paycheck or gig to gig, there is a great immediacy of struggle. The economic ‘side effects’ of this coronavirus could be catastrophic.

And yet.

For many in our world, the pre-coronavirus status quo was already catastrophic. Many are facing an imminent end to their world--indeed, for many species and many peoples, the world has already ended. We are in the midst of a crisis of unprecedented magnitude: the choice for humanity is change or die. No one said change would be easy. (Neither is dying.)

And incremental change is not enough. It will take radical change to shift our current, calamitous trajectory away from massive environmental devastation, famine, energy crises, war & refugee crises, increasingly authoritarian regimes and escalating inequalities.

The world we know is dying. What is unsustainable cannot persist, by definition, and we are starting to see this play out.

What hope is there, then? There is the hope that breakdown will become, or coexist with, breakthrough. There is the hope that what is dying is the caterpillar of immature humanity in order that the metamorphosis yields a stunning emergence. That whatever survives this collective initiation process will be truer, more heart-connected, resilient and generative.

We are entering the chrysalis. There’s no instruction manual for what happens next. But we can learn some things from observing nature (thank you Megan Toben for some of this biological info). For one thing, the chrysalis stage is preceded by a feeding frenzy in which the caterpillar massively overconsumes (sound familiar? We’ve been there for decades). Then its tissues melt into a virtually undifferentiated goo. What remain separate are so-called imaginal cells, which link together and become the template from which the goo reorganizes itself into a butterfly.

Does the caterpillar overconsume strategically, or out of blind instinct? Does it know what’s coming and trust in the process, or does it feel like it’s dying? We don’t know. It’s natural to resist radical, painful change. But ultimately there’s little choice but to surrender to it. We can practice welcoming the circumstances that force us away from dysfunctional old patterns, be they economic or personal. We have that opportunity now.

Let’s return to a crucial word, initiation. On an individual level, initiations are those processes or rituals by which one reaches a new state of being and corresponding social status: from girl to woman, from layperson to clergy, and so on. Initiations can be deliberate or spontaneous, as in the case of the archetypal shamanic initiation, which comes by way of a healing crisis.

To paraphrase Michael Meade, initiations are events that pull us deeper into life than we would otherwise go. They vary widely from culture to culture and individual to individual, but two characteristics they share are intensity and transformation. They bring us face to face with life and with death; they always involve an element of dying or shedding so that the new can be born.

Most all of us have undergone initiations of one sort of another, from the death of a parent to the birth of a child. Many have experienced initiation in the form of a crisis or trial by fire. Those of us who have gone through more deliberate, ritualized forms of initiation can state unequivocally: the process is not fun, comfortable or predictable.

You may well feel like you’re going nuts. You may not know who you are anymore. You don’t get to choose which parts of you die, or even to know ahead of time.

One of the overriding feelings is of uncertainty: you don’t know where you’re going, only that there’s no going back. And there’s no way of knowing how long the transformation will take. It can help to remember that the initiatory chrysalis phase is a sacred time, set apart from normal life.That it has its own demands and its own logic. That it cannot be rushed, only surrendered to. That it may be painful, but also, ultimately, healing.

Imagine what happens when an entire society finds itself in the midst of a critical initiation. Except you don’t have to imagine: it’s already happening, or starting to. It looks like chaos, a meltdown. We’re in a moment of collective, global-level crisis and uncertainty that has little precedent in living memory.

The economic machine--the source of our financial needs and also a system that profits from disease, divorce, crime and tragedy--is faced with a dramatic slow-down. We are all facing the cessation of non- essential activities. There is opportunity here, if we claim it.

This is a sacred time.

However, unlike a traditional rite of passage ceremony, there’s no priest or elder with wisdom born of experience holding the ritual container, tracking everything seen and unseen. Instead, all at once there are millions of personal quests inside one enormous initiatory chrysalis.

And yet, look closely: amid the goo, you may start to notice imaginal cells appearing. Pockets of people who are aligned with something they may not fully understand, in receipt of a vision or pieces of one, beaming out their signal to say: let’s try something different.

This is an opportunity to loosen our grip on old and familiar ways. Those ways worked for as long as they did, and they got us here, for better and for worse. They seem unlikely to carry us much further.

What if we’re instead being asked to feel our way forward, from the heart, without benefit of certainty--which, when concentrated, quickly becomes toxic? No one has all the answers in this or any other time. Right now the questions may be more valuable.

What if we honor this time with sacred respect?

What if we take the time to listen for the boundaries and limits of our Earth mother?

What is truly important?

How can we receive the bitter medicine of the moment deep into our cells and let it align us with latent possibility?

How can we, with the support of the unseen, serve as midwives to all that is dying here and all that is being born?

With these questions resounding, let us s l o w d o w n and listen. For echo back from the unseen, for whisperings from the depths of our souls and from the heart of the mystery that--no less so in times of crisis--embraces us all.


Wow.  Timely.  As of 12:01 this morning (Friday, March 27), we (Broward County, Florida) are now operating under an Emergency Shelter-in-Place order (meaning, stay indoors except to conduct "essential" business). I will stop going to the park to walk, as well as meet up for our family get-togethers.

I *will* walk in my condo complex, even safer now that most of the snowbirds have headed back north.  I feel secure to have at least a two-week supply of food in my fridge, freezer, and pantry. I will venture out at some point to fill up my car with gas, just in case.

And we wait.


SONG:  American Tune by Paul Simon (cover by Dave Matthews)

BOOK:  Shelter by Céline Claire, Qin Leng (Illustrator)

POEM:  Cutting Loose by William Stafford

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
you sing. For no reason, you accept
the way of being lost, cutting loose
from all else and electing a world
where you go where you want to.

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
that a steady center is holding
all else. If you listen, that sound
will tell you where it is and you
can slide your way past trouble.

Certain twisted monsters
always bar the path -- but that's when
you get going best, glad to be lost,
learning how real it is
here on earth, again and again.

QUOTE:  "When the storms of life come, if they come to me personally, to my family or to the world, I want to be strong enough to stand and be a strength to somebody else, be shelter for somebody else." ~ Anne Graham Lotz

The Rain, The Park, & Other Things (The Cowsills)

In the last week, my family (husband, three adult children, grandson, granddog) and I have met twice in a local park, scheduled again for tomorrow/Friday.  Since the kids are worried about us, their "aging" parents, we went for almost two weeks without a face-to-face, and it was breaking my heart.  Now we head outdoors, with our blankets and chairs the obligatory six feet apart, and spend about 90 minutes catching up on each others' lives, which fills my soul.  We've talked a lot about coping mechanisms, as well as things we can control vs. things we can't. R, my middle child, had the brilliant idea of passing a journal back and forth, a page per person, and I love the idea of there being a tangible gift on the other side of this, a collection of our innermost thoughts via writings, drawings, poems, and songs.  In my head, I am titling it Love in the Time of Corona(virus) (sorry, Gabriel Garcia Marquez!).

I am grateful for my friend Nancy, who encouraged me to get back into my walking routine, long-dormant and much missed.  This is our second week of meeting Monday/Wednesday/Friday at the same local park mentioned above, and now I am in obsessed mode (conjuring a sweet memory of 20 years ago), my legs twitching to get out of bed and hit the pavement.  I am all about "hey, let's walk for an hour, then sit on a bench, then head back to the car", while N likes to quantify things, and lets me know we have taken about 6,500 steps. It's a good balance.  We walk, we talk (ooooh, so much talking that I can't remember what I told her before and what is still to be shared!), we laugh, and we try not to worry.  Now Eileen and I are doing the same thing Tuesdays and Thursdays, except that next week we will have to move our routine to evenings, since she is a teacher, and will be doing her instructions online until the end of this school year.

We also notice all sorts of nature (squirrels, iguanas, ducks and, most recently turtles).  E took the photo on the left, and it was moving much more quickly than I would have thought possible for something so small (think pet store turtles from when we were young).  N caught the image on the right (huge!), and we were guessing it was a mama as, with each rotation we watched it go through the process of digging a hole, then seemingly deposit eggs, then cover the hole with sand.  Wow!

In the late-afternoons (4:00 p.m.-ish), a few times a week, I go down to our condo pool to do various stretches (thankyoujesus for the weightlessness of water) and swim laps (if my rudimentary butterfly/frog stroke can be considered such).  I then curl up on one of the lounge chairs to read my book as well as to get some sun, one hour front, one hour back, then head upstairs.

I am super-tan, relaxed as much as I can during these crazy days, and make plenty of time for skin care:  Origins VitaZing™ SPF 15 Energy-boosting Moisturizer in the morning, Origins Plantscription™ Anti-Aging Power Serum at night.  Hey, what else is there to do, right?!?

Given the circumstances, this is going to sound ridiculously superficial, but... I miss my wardrobe:  my cute dresses, my tunics and leggings, my shorts and cold-shoulder tops.  Now I segue from my nightgown... to a T-shirt and athletic skorts or yoga capris... to my bathing suit... back to my nightgown.  Then I remind myself that I hope this is the worst problem I face each day.  Perspective is everything.  Ommmmmmm.


SONG:  The Rain, The Park, & Other Things by The Cowsills

BOOK:  Walking Each Other Home by Melanie Boster, David W. Boster (photographer)

POEM:  Keeping Quiet by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

QUOTE:  “Practically speaking, a life that is vowed to simplicity, appropriate boldness, good humor, gratitude, unstinting work and play, and lots of walking, brings us close to the actually existing world and its wholeness.” ~ Gary Snyder

Help! (The Beatles)

Let's take a moment to give thanks to The Helpers, the essential people who will get us through this current global crisis, and are putting their own lives on the line every time they show up for work:  first responders, health care professionals, those who work in grocery stores, banks, pharmacies, gas stations, etc.

It was Seniors Day at Publix, meaning that they instituted a new policy last week, starting yesterday, that the hours of 7:00 to 8:00 am, every Tuesday and Wednesday, were exclusively for those of us 65 and older.  It's a respectful gesture, in that we are the demographic most like to die from the coronavirus, especially those with underlying medical conditions (thankfully, neither my husband nor myself fall in that category).

Anyway, it was very organized and civilized, and we stocked up (without hoarding) on groceries (both perishables and shelf-stable boxes and cans), and household goods. All paper products were wiped out, but thankfully we have a fair amount of toilet paper and, later today, I will be cutting up paper towels to use for napkins.  There were only two containers of antibacterial wipes on the shelf, and I watched my husband and another woman silently determine they each got one (rather than someone whisking away both).

Our daughter, knowing we were making the adventure this morning, texted us: "Please be safe this morning" to which I replied:

"All went well.  We hugged 10 people, we shook hands with 5, we kissed our cashier, and high-fived the general manager on our way out."

I crack myself up!  We did, though, thank every Publix employee we saw, especially our cashier...  :-)

P.S.  When my husband and I took our Hard Rock Guitar Hotel two-night staycation (which I won in a raffle almost a year ago) the first week of March, we watched A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.  Amazing movie, and here's the true story/Esquire article it's based on.


Rob Brezsny's Astrology Newsletter
March 25, 2020

"Anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fishhooks or clay pots or grinding stones.

But Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

"A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts," Mead said.

We are at our best when we serve others. Be civilized."

~ Ira Byock, *The Best Care Possible: A Physician’s Quest to Transform
Care Through the End of Life*



SONG:  Help! by The Beatles

BOOK:  The World According to Mister Rogers: Important Things to Remember by Fred Rogers

POEM:  Of History and Hope by Miller Williams

We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.

But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.

Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.

All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.

QUOTE:  "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, 'Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.' To this day, especially in times of 'disaster,' I remember my mother’s words and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers — so many caring people in this world."  ~ Fred Rogers, aka Mister Rogers

B*tches in Bookshops - a Jay Z/Kanye West parody (La Shea Delaney and Annabelle Quezada)

One of my "jokes" during this self-isolating pandemic crisis is that I have been hoarding books the way others are toilet paper and hand sanitizer.  Not too far off target in that, in the weeks before the library closed (end of business day this past Thursday), I have managed to check out 25 books. Yikes, right?

I know I have plenty to read in addition, and that's not even counting the six boxes of TBRs stashed away from our move almost two years ago, surreptitiously covered by a Mexican blanket and masquerading as a table.  Ha!

However, I do miss that, despite the fact the app is still working and I can Hold request all I want, it will be *months* before I can stroll through the library doors and pick up any of those books. Much as I rely on that system, I also miss browsing the New Releases, running across titles of interest that just popped up on Goodreads or a friend's recommendation, and hastily snatching it up with a sigh of contentment.  Better even than retail therapy, and it's free!

A few months ago, I ran across an art exhibit at the Broward College/South Regional Library (my branch) of mosaics by Susan Nanna Casbarro.  All the pieces were stunning, but the one pictured above made my heart flutter.  I know I couldn't afford it and, even if I could, I have no available wall space anyway.  I'm just grateful to have snagged the image from her website to look at periodically and smile...  :-)

P.S.  Yes, during these troubled times, I am reading like a motherf*cker, and cracked myself up the other day by substituting an exquisitely-written and dense Italian family saga (which I was 20 pages into)... for NOS4A2 by Joe Hill, Stephen King's son.  A perfect escape, "unputdownable" as is the catch phrase these days.


SONG:  B*tches in Bookshops (a Jay Z/Kanye West parody) by La Shea Delaney and Annabelle Quezada

BOOK:  The Library by Susan Orlean

POEM(s):  If Librarians Were Honest by Joseph Mills 

“…a book indeed sometimes debauched me from my work…”
–Benjamin Franklin

If librarians were honest,
they wouldn’t smile, or act
welcoming. They would say,
You need to be careful. Here
be monsters. They would say,
These rooms house heathens
and heretics, murderers and
maniacs, the deluded, desperate,
and dissolute. They would say,
These books contain knowledge
of death, desire, and decay,
betrayal, blood, and more blood;
each is a Pandora’s box, so why
would you want to open one.
They would post danger
signs warning that contact
might result in mood swings,
severe changes in vision,
and mind-altering effects.

If librarians were honest
they would admit the stacks
can be more seductive and
shocking than porn. After all,
once you’ve seen a few
breasts, vaginas, and penises,
more is simply more,
a comforting banality,
but the shelves of a library
contain sensational novelties,
a scandalous, permissive mingling
of Malcolm X, Marx, Melville,
Merwin, Millay, Milton, Morrison,
and anyone can check them out,
taking them home or to some corner
where they can be debauched
and impregnated with ideas.

If librarians were honest,
they would say, No one
spends time here without being
changed. Maybe you should
go home. While you still can.


My First Memory (Of Librarians) by Nikki Giovanni

This is my first memory:
A big room with heavy wooden tables that sat on a creaky
     wood floor
A line of green shades—bankers’ lights—down the center
Heavy oak chairs that were too low or maybe I was simply
     too short
          For me to sit in and read
So my first book was always big

In the foyer up four steps a semi-circle desk presided
To the left side the card catalogue
On the right newspapers draped over what looked like
     a quilt rack
Magazines face out from the wall

The welcoming smile of my librarian
The anticipation in my heart
All those books — another world — just waiting

At my fingertips.

QUOTE:  "Information helps you to see that you're not alone. That there's somebody in Mississippi and somebody in Tokyo who all have wept, who've all longed and lost, who've all been happy. So the library helps you to see, not only that you are not alone, but that you're not really any different from everyone else." ~ Maya Angelou

Together (Susan Werner)

I am a long-time UU (Unitarian Universalist).  Giving up the 14-year Labyrinth Cafe concert series allowed me new spiritual freedom, and I recently left the congregation I joined in March 2003 to begin attending one a little bit closer, not just for the proximity, but mainly because I've known the minister there for 20 years (even before she was a minister!).  These new members are a bit of a younger demographic, lots of kids in their RE (Religious Education) program, and everyone so very vibrant and engaged!

Obviously, with this pandemic, people are not gathering in person anymore, and this morning was our first online worship.  It was already scheduled to be the Annual Poetry Service and, given that poems have the power to soothe and heal, they kept it on the agenda with, appropriately enough, the theme of Abundance.

I went up to the church this past Monday to record my selection (don't worry, the half-dozen of us practiced social distancing!), and prefaced my reading with this introduction:

"I have been a follower of Joy Harjo's poetry for decades.  She was named U.S. Poet Laureate in June 2019, and it was a joy and an honor to see and hear her at the Miami Book Fair this past November.  Little did I know, way back on February 1 when I submitted this poem for inclusion in the River of Grass Poetry Service, how relevant it would be."

I logged on through the Zoom platform, which I have never used before, about 30 minutes early, to make sure I figured out how (I did!), and at 10:30, the service began.  It flowed so smoothly (kudos to Zena for coordinating, and Rebecca for her tech work), from one pre-recorded segment to another:  piano pieces, the lighting of the chalice, our covenant reading, Rev. Amy's heartfelt transition prayers, and then readers of the poems.  Amy ended with the Lynn Ungar (another UU minister) poem and, after the chalice extinguishing, the group was unmuted, and we were able to say hello to each other, wave, and speak.  Also, there was a live chatbox throughout, where we could type our thoughts (Joys and Concerns, etc.).  I cried through just about the whole thing.  

I do feel proud to have conquered my technoweenie self to participate, and I look forward to future Sundays, until the day we are able to gather... Together... again.

P.S.  Also, this by author John Green.  Wow!


SONG:  Together by Susan Werner

BOOK:  A Handbook for Badass Spiritual Warriors: Eleven Powerful Practices To Ignite your Spiritual Connection by Corinne Lebrun M.S.

POEM(s):  Perhaps the World Ends Here by Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. 

Pandemic by Lynn Ungar

What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbath—
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.

And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one another’s hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.

Promise this world your love–
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.

QUOTE:  "Anybody can observe the Sabbath, but making it holy surely takes the rest of the week." ~ Alice Walker

Safety Dance (Men Without Hats)

Much has happened in the three weeks since I last posted.  Beautiful things.  An embarrassment of riches in my life.  Then... coronavirus a.k.a. COVID-19.  Dum dum dum dum [ominous music plays]

It is a strange and crazy time right now, a frightening time, as our world is becoming smaller and smaller.  Broadway, Major League sports, Disney... all cancelled until further notice.  On a local level, concerts and book clubs and get-togethers are being postponed left and right, and hugging (our life sustenance) is discouraged.  I appreciate the safety of elbow- and fist-bumps and air kisses these days, but I fear I will shrivel away without live music and human touch.

I will revisit those other topics at some point.  For now, as a woman who thrives on social activities, my calendar has cleared itself.  I have chosen to go inward, to self-quarantine, at least for the next week (or two), taking the "better safe than sorry" approach.

I read this blog post by Amy Speace yesterday, which beautifully encapsulates my state of mind (gratitude!), and attempting to walk that fine line between taking precautions and living in fear.

My friend Joshua wrote this exquisite piece about Social Distancing.

And my daughter Sarah shared this link about Coronavirus and the Sun (and now I'm planning to spend all day tomorrow at our condo pool...  :-)

In the meantime, washyourhands, washyourhands, washyourhands.  I believe this too shall pass (but it will get worse before it gets better).


SONG:  Safety Dance by Men Without Hats

BOOK:  The Stand by Stephen King (sorry, SK!)

POEM:  Try to Praise the Mutilated World by Adam Zagajewski

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of rosé wine.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees going nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth's scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

QUOTE:  "We travel together, passengers on a little spaceship, dependent on its vulnerable reserves of air and soil, all committed, for our safety, to its security and peace. Preserved from annihilation only by the care, the work and the love we give our fragile craft." ~ Adlai Stevenson I