Of Nine Months
Long winter.
Sustained hard rains.
Septic disabled by rising water table.
Grandmother in agony.
Over drugged.
Long death.
March 22nd, the silence.
Then the noise of heavy footfall.
First responders.
Sheriff.
Interview.
Coroner.
Through the long death, immersed in project experiments.
Always on alert with every jangle of the phone ringing.
From the experiments, painting emerges.
Dots.
Dots and dots and dots.
Sitting outside her room, listening to her breathe while she sleeps.
Guarding. Alert.
Tunisian crochet hooks looping.
Recycled yogurt pots.
Absorbing the darkness.
In death, her paleness is luminous, eerie.
She is free.
For months, the last scenes flash randomly and blindingly.
Spring.
Summer.
Fires and thick smoke.
Farmers' Market.
High sales for painted stones.
Shunning facebook and all depressive sources.
Approaching Mid-Celtic Fall.
"As leaves cover the forest floor in a carpet of vibrant rusts, orange and gold, autumn proves that sometimes death too can be a beautiful thing." - Nikita Gill
Still breathing.
Still here.
The first hard rain.
Wood is being split and stacked for Winter.
Our beautiful dog hobbles with a broken back foot.
Mattress moved to the living room.
The Pines are dying.
Everywhere.
Lean apple and plum harvest.
Grapes oddly lacking taste.
Too much Winter water, too much heat and thick smoke.
The land staggers with the intense extremes.
And yet ... there is this Truth:
When you live in nature, in the scent of flowers, in the blessed light of the day and the sweet dew of the morning, you don’t have questions, you simply live and joy together with them. Your heart opens, you cry, cry, and your eyes are wet with dew. This is how this song was born, when your body, mind, and soul opens, God steps next to you in an unguarded moment, and pours her treasures into you. -- Istvan Sky
There are treasures.
And more treasures.
The Praying Mantis returning my gaze solemnly.
The Flowers.
The Hummingbirds.
Our happy Bees and their multiplying Queens.
Sebastian, my magical Willow Tree, dancing and whispering.
The bursting Herb garden.
Life.
The thing is …
To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
-Ellen Bass
~~
I will love you again.
I will ... Be Love <3
Sustained hard rains.
Septic disabled by rising water table.
Grandmother in agony.
Over drugged.
Long death.
March 22nd, the silence.
Then the noise of heavy footfall.
First responders.
Sheriff.
Interview.
Coroner.
Through the long death, immersed in project experiments.
Always on alert with every jangle of the phone ringing.
From the experiments, painting emerges.
Dots.
Dots and dots and dots.
Sitting outside her room, listening to her breathe while she sleeps.
Guarding. Alert.
Tunisian crochet hooks looping.
Recycled yogurt pots.
Absorbing the darkness.
In death, her paleness is luminous, eerie.
She is free.
For months, the last scenes flash randomly and blindingly.
Spring.
Summer.
Fires and thick smoke.
Farmers' Market.
High sales for painted stones.
Shunning facebook and all depressive sources.
Approaching Mid-Celtic Fall.
"As leaves cover the forest floor in a carpet of vibrant rusts, orange and gold, autumn proves that sometimes death too can be a beautiful thing." - Nikita Gill
Still breathing.
Still here.
The first hard rain.
Wood is being split and stacked for Winter.
Our beautiful dog hobbles with a broken back foot.
Mattress moved to the living room.
The Pines are dying.
Everywhere.
Lean apple and plum harvest.
Grapes oddly lacking taste.
Too much Winter water, too much heat and thick smoke.
The land staggers with the intense extremes.
And yet ... there is this Truth:
When you live in nature, in the scent of flowers, in the blessed light of the day and the sweet dew of the morning, you don’t have questions, you simply live and joy together with them. Your heart opens, you cry, cry, and your eyes are wet with dew. This is how this song was born, when your body, mind, and soul opens, God steps next to you in an unguarded moment, and pours her treasures into you. -- Istvan Sky
There are treasures.
And more treasures.
The Praying Mantis returning my gaze solemnly.
The Flowers.
The Hummingbirds.
Our happy Bees and their multiplying Queens.
Sebastian, my magical Willow Tree, dancing and whispering.
The bursting Herb garden.
Life.
The thing is …
To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
-Ellen Bass
~~
I will love you again.
I will ... Be Love <3