Talking to Myself Forty-Five

 Blue iris in Judy's garden a few years ago.

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Talking to Myself Forty-Five October 25. 2020

And what is love? Long ago St. Paul

told us what we needed to know.

“Love is patient, love is kind. It does

not envy; it does not boast. It is not

proud. It does not dishonor others.

It is not self-seeking; it is not easily

angered. It keeps no record of wrongs.

Love does not delight in evil but

rejoices with the truth. It always

protects, always trusts, always hopes,

always perseveres.... Now these

three remain: faith, hope, love, but

the greatest of these is love.”*  He

speaks of love. Finally, I hear him

and believe him. He loves me. Our

age is a difficult age. It is hard to

hope, hard to believe even in love, 

and yet it arrives, despite all the

illness, the deaths, the terrible

fear of losing everything. Then

we know we can be happy. We

will live; our words will last.

We are like a huge old black oak,

its roots under both our houses.

We are not forgotten. We are

safe. Even when we fall, we will

continue to be known and loved.

* St. Paul, first Corinthians 13.

Talking to Myself Forty-Four

 Two pink zinnias and a yellow butterfly by Janet

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Talking to Myself Forty-Four October 18, 2020

For Janet

In my mind’s eye a zinnia garden

outside my back door. Tall, large,

showy circles of pure color atop

branching stems: orange, red, yellow,

white, purple, even green. The frost

hovers and will kill them all. Not  yet! 

Not yet! Janet dug out the roots of

the spreading small sunflowers, 

found rich compost and dug that in,

scattered seeds and watched the

seedlings and the morning glory

weeds pop up. Brought me a photo

of the first bud, then bloom. Slowly

they gained height, branched to 

make room for dozens of blooms. 

We brought some in. She took 

some for friends. She guarded

her treasures and made photos for

me, So many photos, sometimes

with a butterfly. I’ll never forget

my zinnia garden. Let the hard

freeze wait!

Talking to Myself Forty-Three

 

 Judy's zinnia garden, planted by Janet summer of 2020

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Talking to Myself Forty -Three October 11, 2020

When you live in a pandemic

that gets worse when you so need

it to get better, to go away, in fact,

ordinary problems get magnified,

distorted, all out of proportion. 

A sick dog will keep you awake 

or even some especially good

news like finding a publisher

asking for the writings of a woman 

who is “courageous, innovative,

definition-defying.” You wonder:

how did he know what you were 

like? You queried him immediately

in the pre-dawn quiet house, but

no response came yet to this

magic call for poems, and you

lay awake wondering how long

it would take him. Of course,

your expectation was unreasonable.

But you’re eighty-three and 

already your options in this life–

your only life–are fewer each year.

You walk to improve your ability 

to walk. You proof old manuscripts 

which you want to enter the world

of published books. You search

for publishers and publish some 

books yourself. You’ve always been

yourself and no other. It was easy

to ignore you since you weren’t

seeking fame, but only readers.

You reached them not as mobs but

as thoughtful individuals. Fame can 

wait. I don’t need to be alive when 

it comes, but the books have to be 

out there somewhere readers can 

pick them up and enter my created 

world of peace, love, and sanity.

Talking to Myself Forty-Two

 Hummingbird at Jordan Dam by Doc Ellen, DVM

***

Talking to Myself Forty-Two October 4, 2020

My main goals now are healing and

strengthening. Slowly, I do more

work in a day, leave home more often.

I saw my eye doctor, got my hair cut,

mailed out review and thank you 

copies of my new book, and will see

my dentist in ten days. I’m even

having a bookmark made. So far,

so good. I get tired, but I don’t get

sick. I made bread yesterday and

will make pizza today. I wake at

two a.m. but sleep later. I enjoy

my work of proofing and teaching. 

We live in strange times, yet I

read, write, and teach as per usual.

I forget more easily. Some people 

I used to see often, I miss. I see

them rarely or not at all. I reread

books I wrote years ago and aim

to publish. I like the life I’ve lived,

the courage I found, the stands I

took. Some of my enemies never

ceased to hate me, but some forgave

me when they knew me better. I

have been doing what I felt called

to do, and I’m quietly grateful I

have friends in far away places: 

China, Russia, Finland, Holland, 

Italy, England, Wales, 

Am I not blessed?