Friday, March 10, 2023

Instructions; or, Preachy Lines on Living with Chronic Illness

“Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there’s got to be a way through it
(or around it).” ~ Michael J. Fox (and moi)

1. Accept that chronic is
(pain, uncertainty,
limitations will
not stop): you
fight your way through

2. when gardening gets too hard, write
love letters to
wild flowers;

3. when you can no longer run, stroll
s l o w l y
appreciating the land-

4. when despair screams, “Quit
, bare your teeth
and push;

5. chronic is enduring, but you can
be too.

- I spent two and a half hours of
not-quite-quality time in an MRI machine. The first 30 minutes weren’t totally horrible--I’m used to that--but after the first hour, I was ready to burst out of the damn thing. The music was nice and loud, but the pounding was brutal and louder. When my neck, my shoulders, my back, my left hip, my bladder and I felt like we couldn’t take it anymore, I started brewing the lines you’ve just read.

photo by National Cancer Institute, on Unsplash
(That isn’t me, obviously, the thing (mask?) they put over my face looks more like
the one wore by Hannibal Lecter. Hm, now I’m craving “some fava beans and a nice Chianti.”)

photo by Sixteen Miles Out, on Unsplash

 - for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #67: “love letters to wild flowers”.

Friday, March 3, 2023

Warming Bursts of Life

not-quite Journaling, 50

2/18/2023: Every now and again, someone (we thought we knew well ) does something so atrocious that we can’t help but want to bite their freaking head off (and yes, by “we” I mean “me”).


in the gloom,
warming bursts of life
spring for me

2/22/2023: The sun is MIA, but seeing this wee garlic sprouting brightens things up.


2/25/2023: The haiku was inspired by the sight of snow falling darkly. Follow this link to see if on Instagram.


2/28/2023: New York City is shrouded in snow today. The flakes fall in heavy clumps that chill air and soil, and weigh down my heart. I know Nature is too big to spend a whole day grieving with me. Still, the wintry gloom makes me wonder if she, too, is marking the anniversary of my little brother’s death.


when forests go dark,
I search for blossoming sun-
light to ink and share

3/3/2023: My dearest and sweetest Rosemary asked us “what would you write in the face of disaster? What will you write?” I react to collective catastrophe in the same way that I react to personal peril: I acknowledge the horror and the hurt… then I dig, with tooth and claw and will, until I find someone or something that reminds me that the world isn’t all rotten. I let the findings feed my ink, and I share the words with you—because, like darkness, brightness shared spreads.

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #66: In the Face of Disaster.