Kind and gentle reader, it’s been a rough weekend, and this Monday has felt so Monday, so I’m giving up and giving myself permission to put together and publish my Something Good list tomorrow. This is how I can take care of myself today.

Over the weekend, I made my first attempt at cpap therapy, and ended up having major panic attacks both times I tried. I knew I was claustrophobic and it might take some getting used to, but I had no idea it would be so bad. And because I didn’t expect that, I rushed things, which only made it worse. I’m backing off and slowing down, trying some of the suggestions I’ve gotten, but the damage and trauma are done, so it’s going to take some real effort on my part, and a whole lot of support to get through it, and from the perspective of this moment, I’m not very hopeful that in the end I’ll be able to continue with this option.

It was aggravated by the fact that after six years, I only recently weaned myself off my anti-anxiety meds — which yay for me but also maybe not the best timing? The experience I had trying the mask, feeling like I couldn’t breathe, also triggered some big grief around the loss of Eric’s mom, as she died because her lungs would no longer work, and some of her last words were “I can’t breathe” and feeling that terror for those few moments I did made me so sad for the way she suffered in the end, and so sad that she’s really and truly gone. And of course, as you may know yourself, every grief is connected to all the others, and sometimes you can’t help but feel the full weight of that lineage of loss all at once, and it is heavy.

Then on Saturday, a back leg strain or sprain Ringo had a few weeks ago that we thought had healed was triggered and he was in so much pain, we had to take him to the emergency vet, and then today take him to his regular vet, and also get him on the schedule with his rehab vet, since the underlying issue is most likely his arthritis. When you have a 12 year old, or any dog really if you look at my experience with my dogs, anything that happens is either fixable, manageable, or a sign of “the big bad,” and you enter into the diagnostic discovery phase not knowing which one it will be. Thank goodness Ringo has the best team of doctors and therapists supporting him and us. We are so lucky for that. Rest, pain meds, x-rays on Friday morning just to be sure, and more attention to a long term management plan is the strategy.

So instead of a list of good things, today I’d like to share three poems with you: a book spine poem I unintentionally “wrote” by the way I put together a stack of books, and two poems I wrote while I was in Oregon recently and shared with my writing group a few weeks ago. I’d also like to encourage you, as I have been myself the past few days, to stay tender, keep your heart open, keep practicing, and don’t give up.  

finding beauty in a broken world

the fifth season
an unspoken hunger
the magic words unlocking the heart
a still life
the path to kindness

P.S. As I looked at this image again this morning, I realized there was a book title peaking over the stack from the back, and that it was actually the title, so here’s the revised poem.

finger exercises for poets

finding beauty in a broken world
the fifth season
an unspoken hunger
the magic words unlocking the heart
a still life
the path to kindness

Keeping Time

Here in this house, in this place
Moments in time overlap, layer and loop
shadowing each other like hungry ghosts
a snake swallowing its own tail
Past and present and future
Every clock, every measure
telling a different story

7:48 real time
8:52 microwave time
7:01 blinking oven time
8:50 dining room time
8:55 living room time
9:06 thermostat time,
with settings for “here, away & sleep”

1:56 Mom’s bathroom time,
no longer moving forward,
lingering in one place, going nowhere
1:37 Dad’s bathroom time, stopped
7:35 Dad’s tool bench time, also stopped
6:36 the clock on the opposite wall
where he kept his collection of toys and cars,
also holding still where it stopped
hanging next to a sign that reads,
“What happens in the garage, stays in the garage”

Then there’s the time not measured,
like in the room where Dad died,
entirely emptied out now,
the windows closed,
no longer a clock ticking out
the minutes as they pass.

Both sets of parent’s homes had that in common,
the quiet there never entirely silent,
always the tick of time passing,
sometimes so loud I couldn’t sleep.
Now the measure so far off lived time,
it isn’t exactly clear what the
remaining clocks are measuring.

Awake Again at 2 am

Middle of the long night
Thirsty, a hungry ghost in an empty house
Get a glass of water, drink
As I walked across the dark house
to the kitchen sink
I could have sworn the moon was close to full
but Google says it’s only a waxing crescent
only five days away from full dark
I spill some of the water
And it feels like a ceremony

Marble jar, middle of the night friend
May this find you sleeping
When I’m awake I write you a poem,
even though I’m not a poet
Or maybe I am
A poet of grief puzzling words
in the glow of two candles
in what was their bedroom

At the wild edge of sorrow
in Blackwater woods where Mary walked
The trees reminded her that it’s simple,
to be filled with light, to shine as they do
She reminded us we only need three things
to live this life, the third and final one being
to let go, let go

We are all poets, hungry ghosts,
some of us awake,
the noise of the owls and clocks
too loud for sleep.
While others are sleeping
some are waiting to die,
calling out, “Are you awake?”
Some are dreaming
that the wolf is chewing their bones.

Poets of the apocalypse, awake in the dark
which I suppose we all need to be now
If we are to survive it
I am up doing the water ceremony
Drink some, spill a little
Like the way one might pour
a shot of liquor on a loved one’s grave

There’s a half bottle of Jim Beam
in the back corner of the bottom shelf
in the laundry room cabinet
My brother told me just yesterday
that when he was here
taking care of Mom and Dad,
after her stroke,
him dying in the back room,
He drank it to help him sleep
“I’ll never drink dark liquor again”

If I could, I’d tell him about the water ceremony,
about the light of the trees that’s also in us,
about the letting go
I’d tell him to read poetry
Or write it, eat it, drink it, spill it

During COVID, at 8 pm every night
we’d all go outside and howl,
together but also not.
And here we still are,
all here together and also not,
at the end of the world
in the middle of nowhere,
middle of the night,
asleep or awake,
dreaming or howling,
writing poetry, making offerings
of water and light.