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.

Being Wise Forty-Three

                             Judy by Debbie Meyer spring 2021

         Being Wise Forty-Three November 28, 2021

When the body has different ideas,

I’m distracted, shivering, wrap

myself in blankets, drink hot tea,

soon feel almost normal, drink

more tea with honey. It’s light

outside, though the sun on the

higher leaves doesn’t mean it’s

warm. Maybe later sun will be

closer to warm. Maybe the toast

calories will kick in, and Tim 

will be up and making a fire

in the woodstove. Meantime

I will drink more hot tea. When

I lived in a borrowed apartment

in Russia, twenty-six years ago,

there was frost inside on the

windows at night, but the city

turned the heat on at seven, 

and we slept under feather

beds. Then the inside ice

melts. I was the visitor and

mostly valued, though rarely

by my students. Maybe I had

more influence than I thought.

You never know whose lives

you’ll influence. But it’s 

worthwhile to do your best

despite whatever the body

is up to.

Being Wise Forty-Two

                                            Judy teaching, photo by Emma Tobin

            Being Wise Forty-Two November 20, 2021

Leaves. The little orchid plant in

the window still thrives, despite

my neglect. Outside a few sweetgum 

leaves frame the window. Farther

away sun hits the tall tulip tree at

the edge of the woods. Our frost

came late, but finally arrived.

The woodstove took the chill off

the house in my writing corner.

It’s quiet except for one mouse

scurrying around near the bookcase.

We always seem to have one more.

I’m grateful for all my helpers

and for leaves, inside and out.

The sun’s light drops lower.

Daylight dominates, insistent.

Another day, leaves turning

yellow, a blush of red. They’re

never boring. I’m content.

 

Being Wise Forty-One

                         Judy portrait by Janet 2020 in December

Being Wise Forty-One November 14, 2021

At night I lie awake, remembering

instead of sleeping. In sleep I

forget what kept me wakeful.

It had been so vivid: a waking

dream that wouldn’t let go. Now

that slate is clean: erased, what

had intruded. The return of light

on the morning it finally killed

the late summer flowers. Winter’s 

here with its chains, its loss of

light. There were a few tomatoes

we didn’t bring in, flowers we

might have picked, all gone.

Next year we’ll begin again.

Seeds, then seedlings, and slowly

flowers. Janet planted onions, which

will survive. The hens will wear

their new feathers. The mice will

be hiding in the house, in the

walls. I bundle up, pull over the

blanket, think of Thanksgiving

and Christmas. What shall I tell

my friends and neighbors? That

dreams keep me awake? I need

to wear more layers, put on more

blankets, believe I’ll continue

waking up?

Being Wiise Forty

                                                     JUDY HOGAN

               Being Wise Forty November 7, 2021

Most days are the same. I wake early;

Tim sleeps late. I do my quiet work,

then read. At 2:30 I take my pills.

Then dishes and supper. I have helpers

in the afternoon, and Tim, when he’s

home, but I still do my part. I don’t go

out much. The pills hold off my disease.

But they won’t always. I never imagined

my life would end this way. Stilll, I have

this reprieve and only one more book 

to get out, and another round of classes:

Gabriela Mistral and Julia Spencer

Fleming. They’ll break the sameness,

wake up my soul, which doesn’t mind

the sameness. I’m careful not to ask

too much of my eighty-four-year-old

human body. I can only do so much

now, but in my life, I’ve outwitted

my chances: years in Russia, a lifetime

love, good friends, few enemies, and

people say outright, “I love you, Judy.”

Being Wise Thirty-Nine

                                 Judy Hogan, photo by Debbie Meyer 2021

Being Wise Thirty-Nine October 31, 2021

For my children

It has happened to other families:

children are rejected; parents are shunned.

My eldest won’t speak to me, pretends

I’m not there, and has written off her own

son. My second child lives with me and 

and helps me. My third child checks in,

wants to know how I am, is proud of her

own children. I’ve been active in the

world of my friends and neighbors, worked 

to stop coal ash dumping in our backyard,

published books about it and other

community problems, taught classes, 

got us laughing. I can’t imagine rejecting

a child, however seeming indifferent.

It does happen. I’m certainly not perfect,

and in one quarter I’m not forgiven.

Maybe I won’t ever be. I’ve said, “She’ll

have to figure it out.” I’ve heard that a

sign of maturity is that you forgive your

parents. It took me awhile to forgive

my mother, but I did finally. 

She did her best.

Being Wise Thirty-Eight

        Cover of Fatality at Angelika's Eatery photo by

                                        Jerry Markatos

Being Wise Thirty-Eight October 24, 2021

For Jerry

Talking to an old friend, I

wanted him to know everything,

not all of it good news. I have

a brain disease, and I’m more

forgetful. The medicine helps.

I can correct my errors most

of the time. He’s worried about

how we see China, and I, how

we see Russia. I publish books

about my dear Russian friends,

and write letters. He researches

China. I speak of my Russian

friend who tells me he loves me.

I’m sorting books, which ones

to keep and which to let go of.

I tell him we still have a few

tomatoes, and he says they’ve

picked the last.  Now they’re

eating persimmons. My world

grows smaller. I’ve accepted

that I’ll die, probably before

I make ninety, but I’m not

worried about it. Even eighty-four’s

not bad. So many things are going

wrong in our world, and we

Americans are partly to blame.

We do have visionaries, and Jerry

and I are two of them. The goal

is that you do your best

and then you rest. 

Being Wise Thirty-Seven

 Judy Hogan making bread. Photo by Virginia.

Being Wise Thirty-Seven October 17, 2021

Nearly seven, and only a little evidence

that daylight is coming. The bread

came out well, in spite of me. I was

exhausted by the time it was ready,

and Tim took it out of the oven. I’ve

been making it since I was told I was

allergic to wheat. So I’ve used rye

flour, and soy and oatbran, some

unbleached, but all organic. My son

and I enjoy it hot and fresh. It’s a

ceremony to cut a few slices when

we take it from the pans. People

we treasure get some, too. Once

I sold it to students who ate it as

they drove home. I think it keeps

me as healthy as possible. Every

few weeks I make a fresh batch.

The hens get the leftovers. My

friends say it’s a feast. There’s

so little in our world as such 

simple, elegant daily bread. 

May we always have enough 

and the energy to bake more.

Being Wise Thirty-Six

 Russian village house in Gorka in Winter. 2020.

Being Wise Thirty-Six October 10, 2021

Finally the rain came. Now the onions 

will have their first satisfying drink.

The flowers will bloom, bees swarm in.

Winter holds back, hesitates. I sleep a

few more hours, inhabit a quiet house,

a relieved natural world. Across from

me a dusty road in a Russian village.

Sorting books, we found it. I was

there twenty-nine years ago, and lonely.

So much has changed. I live from day

to day, glad I’m still alive, but knowing

I’ll die. I’m finishing my work in this

world. Friends accompany me. Photos

of children live everywhere. Books

overwhelm this room. Most of them

I’ll give away. I only need my favorites

now, my old friends: Austen, Trollope,

Eliot, Penny, Spencer Fleming, Cary,

my Russian dictionaries. It’s time

to publish my last book. The diaries

are for me. Other people may enjoy

the books I don’t need. The paintings

and photos will keep me company,

my children and friends. I don’t think

I’ll ever be completely lonely again.

Being Wise Thirty-Five

 Judy and Sheila Crump after a Gospel Sing in Moncure 2016

****

Being Wise Thirty-Five October 3, 2021

How many days?  There could be years, 

but not many, I think. I can still walk and

cook, read and write. Poems will spring

into being. I can still get the bread out of

the toaster when it gets stuck. I made

lasagna two days ago and lemon-ginger

tea yesterday. I teach classes. I go to the

post office and mail letters and bills. I’m

managing the higher dose of my medicine

I still do heel and toe walking. I have

friends–good ones. They comfort me. My

paintings remind me of my Russian 

friends. Some have left this world, but I

still feel their love. I leave my writings

behind me. So many books which were

never published, but thirty which were.

I’ve recognized greatness in others. Let

everything be told. I’m not afraid. I’ll

do my best while I live, however long,

and time will tell. It always does.

Being Wise Thirty-four

                                 Judy and Mikhail     1992 Kostroma, Russia

Being Wise Thirty-Four

September 26, 2021

It has been what? Nine years?

I don’t think he has ever asked

for new glasses, or not for years.

That’s the expensive part. I paid

for these. They’ve lasted, even

when I fell and bent them. Tough,

like me, like you. You had trouble

speaking except about my eyes.

When I did the eye test for your

assistant, I couldn’t see the letters

with my right eye, only with the

left. I think I was having a brain

bleed, like I had last Monday night.

I was upset then and couldn’t read

the page numbers. I’d learned he

was retiring. I asked if he wanted

to. He said yes. Could he recommend

another eye doctor? No, but they’d

assign me one. He studied my eyes,

now dilated. Then he said, “There’s

no problem. They’re normal. They’re

fine." I told him about my new disease,

the little brain bleeds. I think they

happened for his assistant, not for him.

We entered the territory of the sacred.

He loved it that I’d given him a book.

He remembered that I was self-

publishing. He said, “You must keep

working." I said, “I am. I will."

Being Wise Thirty-Three

                                                         Judy by Emma Tobin. 

Being Wise Thirty-Three September 19, 2021

Fog today, they say, but no rain.

High eighties, then rain and cooler.

I gave up driving, but that requires

patience again and again. I learn

to wait, to calm myself, trust my

helpers to come through, to get it

right, remind myself of all that is

going well. I can still read and 

write. I walk better. I’m teaching

and learning. I have enough money

and work I love. No serious complaints.

I’ll die one day, but not yet. I eat well,

sleep well, if not predictably. We edge

toward winter. I ordered fat wood.

The stove is clean and ready to fire up.

The vegetable garden is still producing

a few tomatoes, some okra. Not

everything is possible, but the important

things still are. I can speak, and

people listen.

Being Wise Thirty-Two

Judy by her sister Margie, August 2021 in computer chair

Being Wise Thirty-Two September 12, 2021

I keep falling asleep when I’m

trying to work, or not sleeping 

when I want to. So I keep midnight

hours and make more typos. It’s

my brain refusing me the competence

I’ve always had until now. My

helpers hold my hand tight, carry

heavy things for me. My students

still want me to teach them. I tell them

if I make a mistake, tell me. My mind

is less under my control. It has its

own agenda, its own time-table, its own

rebellions. The creeping green leaves 

curled around my computer, live, but

there are dead leaves, too, when they

lose the sun. We all need sun and

patience, not to mention persistence.

Keep reading even if I do fall asleep.

People love you, even your doctor,

who worries. She knows too much,

and it scares her. Too many youngsters

are sick with this Covid. But she worries

over an eighty-four-year old woman,

and my favorite physical therapist

praises me and eggs me on. She sees

through me and believes in my mastery

of walking. I practice “left foot, heel

first.”The cane comes down when

the left heel does. I still have a ways

to go. Hang on.

 

Being Wise Thirty-One

                        Portrait of Judy by Debbie Meyer Summer 2021. 

                Being Wise Thirty-One September 5, 2021

I will die. I don’t want to think about it. 

as it comes into my dreams and holds me

in its grip. Will I suffer or just feel weak

and lose my fight, my will to win? I can’t 

even remember my dream, just the way

it held me captive. I felt needy. I had to get

away, but I couldn’t. I’ve done what I

wanted to do, what I needed to do. One

more big book to get out. Can I manage

that? I’ll try. I’ll make bread today. I’ll

put the two halves of my last book back

together. I’ll teach my classes. These

may be the last, but I’ll give them my

best effort. I’ll keep writing poems.

They’re still coming. I won’t change

the way I am. The big world around

me is staggering. Too many people 

are without the food and shelter they

need. No money, no work, no hope in

their future. I have food and shelter,

and loving people to help me. I’ll do

all I can now. I’m not helpless yet.

Guest Post by Mindi Meltz: The Ever After Ever Trilogy

Here’s an invocation by the Wicked Witch in Mindi Meltz's After Ever After trilogy, a fairy tale of real relationship beyond the "happily ever after" union where most love stories end. Cinderella must overcome childhood self-denial to become queen and stand equal with her husband. Sleeping Beauty wakes to find her primeval land and matriarchal people destroyed—but her forgotten, hundred-year dream of love’s surrender holds the key to renewal. Belle yearns secretly for the Beast who inspired her passion before he turned back into a man, reflecting her own animal yearnings in a ghostly land. Snow White, raised in mythic wilderness by demigods of old, must recognize her own human self in that magic mirror, to finally take in and transform by the love of the huntsman. Discovering each other across mountain and dream, through ritual and longing, by war and friendship, these four familiar princesses evolve into real women across three epic tales. And that “wicked” Dark Faerie keeps luring them deeper into the forbidden, shadowy, feminine magic threading each of their clashing cultures—the lost rage, tenderness, sensuality, compassion, community and natural aliveness of the divine feminine—until they claim, not by battle but by intimacy, the true sovereign power to heal their broken worlds.

Book 2 was just released in July, Book 3 to be released early next year. Read more at www.mindimeltz.com.

****

Snow White hid in a mirror reflected. 

Cinderella danced at the ball undetected.

No one knows Sleeping Beauty’s dream.

Beauty loved Beast, but was she what she seemed?

They woke by kisses; they changed rags to riches; 

They defeated the curse of those dark faerie-witches.

But was it a curse? Did you ever ask her?

Did they really live happily all the while after?

Who were those princes, and how did it feel

to wake a hundred years later, your old life not real?

One fairy tale ended, but another began:

You married a beast, but must live with the man.

Who sent you blind, into love, to be “princess”? 

Who wrote love stories that ended in conquest?

You already know the tales told by men. 

I tell the tale that comes after the end.

I, witch of old, tell the story of she

whose lands are not symbols: they birth us, they breathe.Snow White, Beauty, Cinderella—

My curses were gifts, and at last I will tell you.

I call on the wolf, the sea, the winds.

I call on your memory, I call on the Grimms.

I call in the maidens, the mothers, the crones, 

the forest, the fields where you played all alone.

I call in jealousy, changes, new tears, 

the sacrifice and the long marriage years.

I call in wild-men, huntsmen, dwarves

slain by the heart and not by the sword.

I call in the waking, the crown and the blessing. 

I call in all of the things you were wishing

when you pricked your finger, or stole the rose, 

when you prayed at the grave your mother knows.

How will you be strong, and what does it mean 

to rule a world, to be princess—or queen?

Now you’re a wife, but you’re looking thin. 

So bite the apple. Let me back in.

— the Dark Faerie Queen

Mythical Novels and Animal Wisdom

www.mindimeltz.com

 

Being Wise Twenty-Nine

 My books, The Sands of Gower and Haw, in Kostroma, Russia Library

Being Wise Twenty-Nine   August 22, 2021

Leaves reaching, inside the window,

outside, too. Around me paintings,

mostly Russian, those loved people.

Then papers and books everywhere:

under my desk, in drawers of filing

cabinets, in boxes taking up half

the room, or more. All the words I’ve

written and will leave behind me.

These last books are my best, I think.

One at a time, I’ve published twenty-

eight books. In coming years, thirty-

one. Then I’ll rest my case. All the

human stories I’ve told, the battles

I’ve described; the endings I’ve

imagined and made real. All the

people who’ve helped me, and those

I’ve helped. What else is our human

life for? If we help each other on earth,

we’ll help each other in heaven. Who

we are won’t ever be lost. Even as our

light dims, it won’t disappear.

Being Wise Twenty-Eight

     Sunrise on New Year's day by Doc Ellen at Jordan Lake,                 Moncure, N.C.

Being Wise Twenty-Eight August 15, 2021

Most mornings I awake at dark

and wait for light. First light is

grey, barely visible. Then faint

tree shadows slowly taking on

substance because something

is glowing, off to one side. This

window looks west. If I turned

and looked east. I could see more–

a real flowering of light as the

clock moves past six. Even now

we head toward winter. They’ve

promised rain for a week. It began

last night, and Tim brought the

clothes in. Definitely trees now,

and sky behind them. A few

branches right outside this window,

still bearing green leaves. Maybe

the end of our 90-degree days. 

Maybe not. With our climate

changing, it’s hard to tell.  We’ve

had more than our usual rain

and high humidity. The sky begins

to turn blue. The rooster crows.

It’s not raining now. Light enters

from outside as well as from the

lamps. I see the single leaf shapes.

The rooster sounds happy, even

celebratory. The computer is dark,

because we had a storm last night,

and I turned it off early. Now it is

full light even though the sun is

still beyond the trees but waking

to keep me company and turning

sky pale blue with pink.

Being Wise Twenty-Seven

photo of my Grandmother Grace with gladiolas in Norman, OK.

Being Wise Twenty-Seven August 8, 2021

My aging body is doing well, 

all considered, but when my feet

hurt, it slows me way down. I

forget to do my exercises. It

doesn’t take much. A sharp

toenail. If I’m reading a good

book, I almost forget the pain,

but it never quite goes away. I

have to act on behalf of my

feet. Mostly though I pass through

my days with very little pain.

When I took off my shoes,

the pain eased. I have three

helpers, sometimes more. When

I have to ask help, I try to give

them advance notice and choices.

“If you would pick the okra,

I’d be so grateful.” He didn’t

want to, but he did. My life is

very limited, yet I still publish

books and teach classes. But

I can easily forget what day it is

and have to stop and think:

“Today is Sunday, poem day.

Write about the way it is now.

Then there will be a record

in case I forget.”

 

Being Wise Twenty-Six

 Blue Grosbeak at Jordan Lake Dam. Photo by Doc Ellen

Being Wise Twenty-Six August 1, 2021

It takes courage not to worry

when your brain has little bleeds.

Where will it end, and when?

No one knows. I take the pill

every day and carry hot tea

without a spill. I sometimes

knock things off. Dishes

accumulate. I bury myself in

good books. In the midst of a

fire scene when a wrecked

helicopter explodes, the smoke

alarm goes off. Tim toasted

his bread twice with that result.

He knew it would but couldn’t

resist. I jump. The book’s fire

is real to me. In the book,

problems are solved. Mine I

have to live with. Right now

I’m not in pain. Sometimes I

can’t sleep when I want to,

and many times I sleep when

I’m trying to stay awake. It’s

part of aging, yes. I’m living

longer than most people. I’m

being cared for in ways I never

expected. Life ends by being

mysterious and gracious, not

to mention unpredictable.

Being Wise Twenty-Five

     Three pink cosmos blooms and a bud. Janet Wyatt 2020

Being Wise Twenty-Five July 25, 2021

Reading, reading. Human error. We

make so many. Around me, but at a

distance, desperate people are dying.

Our Covid returns, full force and

worse. I have my own disease and its

medicine. No more numbness, but I

forget more. I’m writing notes now

in my diary to keep track. I still write

poetry. I still make supper. I start the

wash. I make the grocery list. Two 

women say to call them if I need 

someone, if I fall and can’t get up. 

Two others come to help. Tim carries

my dishes after meals. I sometimes

drop my fork or knife. I begin to have

my real old age. Memory lapses, but

so far I catch and correct them. I

publish new poems on my blog. My

voice is quieter than once.. I let

others carry my activist burden. I’ll

observe and write. Let the poems do

more work. I’ll keep reading human

history, suffer human error. I’ve done

my share of loving, and I’ve been

loved, too passionately for it to last.

And yet it lasted. I’m satisfied. What

I felt those years, albeit the poems,

stays and stays, will never be lost. I’ve

suffered, yet known ecstatic heights.

One word is sometimes enough.

Being Wise Twenty-Four

Members of Chatham Citizens Against Coal Ash Dump celebrating a legal win in 2017. Final legal win in December 2020. By then we'd lost Johnsie Tipton, first on left, and John Cross, third on right, and Terica Luxton, not shown, to cancer.

Being Wise Twenty-Four July 18, 2021

Right now, in the wider world,

Hate thrives, our pandemic is

still alive and flourishing. Racism

rears its ugly head again, again!

All the tenets of democracy are

under attack. What happened

to the Bill of Rights and our

Constitution? Our Declaration

of Independence? We moved

from that beginning: our forefathers

first, and finally everyone; the

eighteen-year-olds, the former

slaves, the native nations, women,

and all white men achieved the

vote. Now white men, their

power threatened, try to take

our votes away. Shame, shame!

All our great religions urge us

to treat others as we would be

treated. As children we learn

to help each other. Kindness

wins friends. A helping hand

reveals the true value of our

fellows. Our Earth Itself suffers

from our carelessness, our greed.

We’re not being wise. We’re being

foolish. Will rainstorms, drought,

hurricanes, tornadoes, sea surges

teach us to be wiser? When roofs

are blown off or our temperature

rises beyond what we need to

live, will we listen and begin

to pay attention?

Being Wise Twenty-Three

    Judy Hogan and Mikhail Bazankov in Russia in 1992

Being Wise Twenty-Three July 11, 2021

When I sleep, my mind goes back

to my beginnings. 1981, when Cindy

Paris worked for the Durham County

Library and suggested a Humanities

grant, and so a Roadmap to Great

Literature came to exist because

I invented it, using Ezra Pound’s 

ABC of Reading. Because I was

a local publisher, I gathered more

students than we had places for, 

and the grant was emended to give

them room. I was tough. They were

to read all of The Iliad and The Odyssey,

all of Dante’s Inferno, Chaucer, Sappho,

Catullus. Then write from those

examples, and they did. Our meeting

place was the Stanford Warren library,

earlier the Black branch. Broken 

windows were repaired. Later they

put us at the big main library. I was

glad, but noticed fewer Black writers.

So I set up a class at the Warren

library, and the Black writers returned.

The Humnities Council kept funding

our classes, and I had a salary. Cindy

cheered me on as did others. even 

Mary Semans when I had been rejected

by the National Endowment for the Humanities.

She used her influence to tell them they

were wrong. My students were reading

the books. So then I got a two-year grant

and even an opportunity to write a

book about my Roadmap classes. 

I had no Ph.D., but I was considered a

Humanist because of my years at

U.C.-Berkeley studying the classics.

I brought in professors from UNC and

Duke to teach French, Spanish, modern

Greek literature. The book, Watering the

Roots in a Democracy, was published

by my Carolina Wren Press and sent

free to libraries. Cindy was glad for my

success. I gave a copy to the Mayor of

Kostroma when he visited Durham to sign

the Sister Cities Agreement between

Durham and Kostroma, Russia. And he gave

the book to the leader of the Kostroma Writers

Organization, Mikhael Bazankov, and he

proposed we do exchanges of our writers,

and we did.

Being Wise Twenty-Two

Coal Ash Bourne cover, drawing by Zachary Turner, published    

            July 1, 2021 by Judy Hogan, author

Being Wise Twenty-Two July 4, 2021

The fourth of July. Let freedom ring. 

Hold fast to our democracy. We have

new tyrants who would take it away.

Our rooster sends his defiant call

over the landscape of this small farm.

He is jubilant and ancient, both at once.

At the beginning of time he was a 

dinosaur, huge and scary. He still has

the feet, but his voice is his real

treasurre now. He won’t be silenced.

He watches our windows for the

tell-tale signs of light.Nor does

the Dawn escape his notice.

 

Being Wise Twenty-One

Orchids in my kitchen

Beeing Wise Twenty-One June 28, 2021

Why was I seeing strange images

when I lay in the tube to have my brain

photographed? The doctors who studied

the pictures were triumphant. “You definitely

have CAA, When you couldn’t use your

left hand, it was because of a bleed in your

brain. This will get worse. You’ll have little

seizures. There are medicines.” They sent

me home with a list. I looked up the side-

effects. Nothing I want to risk. My doctor

and I will talk it over. She listens to me.

A doctor who listens, tells me her thoughts, 

and lets me choose is all I ask. I came home

from the Emergency Department discouraged.

No new signs of little seizures. I have a huge

pile of dishes to wash. I’ll wash them soon.

A little at a time. I’ll get back to my ususal

routine. So far my episodes aren’t painful,

though they take me by surprise. My left hand

won’t work, and I drop a cup. The doctors

take it very seriously. I do, too, but it’s scary.

I must be brave. Fortunately, I know how.

Being Wise Twenty

 

Judy and Sheila Crump after a Gospel Sing to raise money to fight our coal ash Dump in Moncure. Photo by Johnsie Tipton

Being Wise Twenty June 20, 2021

Here I am, safe for now.

In the wider world, there

are many threats. We have

cause to fear we’ll lose our

democracy. People try to take

away votes, let big corporations

increase their power over ordinary

citizens, push us toward poverty, 

more storms, droughts, floods,

hurricanes, make safety an illusion, 

a pipe dream. A little bird whistles

to warn us. A grievous time emerges.

May we see it in time and stop that

dictator in his tracks. Let the harsh

realities be revealed in time. A few

hate democracy, want power over us,

eager to take away our freedom. We will

have our new holiday, Juneteenth. We

will not be cast out or imprisoned. 

Our faith will pull us together.

Those intent on betrayal will 

be overcome, and our

vibrant democracy

will stand strong

and win this war.

Being Wise Nineteen

 

                

Grace with Margaret and baby Dick, 1913, China

****

Being Wise Nineteen June 13, 2021

I live with boxes and clothes.

No messages have come in

so far. Boxes of books, seeds, 

piles of clothes: gifts, hand-me-downs

for winter and summer. I don’t need

many. I don’t go out much. I sorted

the gardenias Janet brought me, the

fresh white ones from those turning

yellow, dying. I miss old friends.

I still have some. I can’t go back

into the past. But it’s still there

in my mind. Thailanna and that

loving family I won’t forget, nor 

Sam, who let me know in so many 

ways, that he loved me, valued me.

All that work we did on Grace.

He wouldn’t let me stop until I’d

discovered who all these people were:

the missionaries and their children.

A lot of women wanted that book

because Grace had mental illness.

There is plenty to do here. All I

need is the will. My shoes fit now.

I have more energy. Slowly I’ll

summon my will. I’ll tackle the

boxes, the piles of clothes. I’ll

remember to be grateful for all

the loving people I’ve had in my life.

When you’ve been loved, you’re

honor-bound to give love back.

Not brood, not despair. Life’s

riches will come.

                         Butterfly on pink zinnia summer of 2020

Being Wise Eighteen June 6, 2021

On one Friday so much happened.

I saw my foot doctor for the second

time, and she said I could wear both

shoes now. I wore the sandal going in

and both shoes going out. I was afraid

of surgery. Instead, I could put on my

shoes. She recommended the brand

Altra, more toe room. We drove to

my old shoe store, and they brought

shoes to try on. Size 12, a little larger.

They fit perfectly and didn’t pinch

at all. “Do you want to wear these home?”

“Yes.” Then I needed medicine. Today,

if possible. I got an appointment for

2:15. “What now?” asked Janet. “The

library.” And we picked up the book

that had come in. Last, we went for my

appointment with Dr. Woods and his

nurse Deb. Once I had the prescription, 

we went to CVS Drugstore. Dr. Woods

had already phoned it in. Then we went

home with shoes and pills. My feet

were tired, but I was triumphant.

I would heal now.