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.”