Being Wise: Forty-Seven

 Judy with Rogers, mother, babies, Grandma and kids in 1946

Being Wise Forty-Seven December 26, 2021

So, here I am, surrounded by books–a thousand

at least–and papers, neither in order, except

what Channah has done, bless her. Outside,

sunny but cold and warming. I slept late. Sophie

is quietly eating, Tim making coffee. For so

many years, I’ve written down my life. From

age thirteen, pretty steadily. I learned who I

was, what I felt, opened my inner life and

trusted it. Even now, when I know I will die, 

but not yet. I still feel pain, which means

I’m still alive. Last night I thought off Wesley,

my beloved at age twelve, far away in time

and space. But we loved each other. He 

brought me a gardenia every day, and we

held hands. The love stays, especially at this

time of year. I remember him singing, “Oh,

Holy Night.” I sang, too, in seventh and

eighth grade and wrote poems. Our lives

went different ways, but we didn’t forget.

Being Wise Forty-Six

                                     My orchids a few years ago.

Being Wise Forty-Six December 20, 2021

When you fall, you have to get up,

no matter how much it hurts, and

since my son lives with me, he’s

the one who pulled me up last

Tuesday, and then again on Thursday.

My friend Channah was with me. We

were just back from the doctor. I fell

into the Christmas tree but didn’t

knock it over. Tim got back from

the grocery store and pulled me up.

The first fall bruised my ribs. “Can’t

do much,” the doctor said.”They’ll

heal themselves.” Slowly, of course.

Ribs can be demanding. They complain

unless you’re standing still or lying

down. Just think: I could have lived

with no bruised ribs. I’ve learned

quite a lot in my old age about feet,

and nosebleeds and coping with pain.

Even getting out of bed hurts, but

slowly I do it. And slowly the pain

lets go, slowly my energy returns,

even a little zest.

Being Wise Forty-Five

 Judy and her dog Wag in the fog at Jordan Dam a few years ago

Photo by Doc Ellen.

Being Wise Forty-Five December 12, 2021

And when you can’t breathe,

the world is black, is empty.

No leaves, no red sky, nothing

but trying in vain to get air, 

frantic, dying? Then very slowly, 

a little air, then a little more.

Finally, an eternal time of five

minutes, then a real breath. I

won’t die yet. I’m okay now.

My son says, “Drink some water, 

drink hot tea.” But first let me

breathe. To live we have to breathe.

I didn’t think I would stop breathing.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t talk.

Hot tea is too far away. Let me

breathe, Let me be, let me live.

Being Wise Forty-Four

 Judy at 84, sister Margie at 81. August 2021

Being Wise Forty-Four December 5, 2021

What a different life I lead.

The butter won’t melt on my toast.

I’m in my computer corner by day

and on my couch by night. From this

old writing chair I see my medicine

bottles, my water bottle, the half-full

honey jar, the book I’m reading,

the computer, the stack of paid and

unpaid bills.  By my couch bed, a

vaporizer, a pile of my clean clothes,

a poinsettia. My cauterized nose

has still not healed. Out the window

I see the leafed and unleafed trees

at the edge of the woods, the coming

of light. Soon we’ll move the other

way as the earth shifts for January

and hurries toward mid-summer.

Our winter has been slight so far.

“Won’t you walk outside?” says

my son. “Not yet,” I say. Things

change slowly, inevitably, without

consulting me. I stay calm. Take

each day and do my best as the slow

days pass with fewer surprises.