Being Wise Sixty

 Mikhail Bazankov, leader of Kostroma Writers Organization, in Kostrroma, Russia

Being Wise Sixty March 27, 2022

I get up too early or sleep too late.

My body adapts. My homemade

bread sustains me, and our diet

contains a lot of cheese and tomato

sauce. I sleep hard and then can’t

sleep. I do my best. I always have.

I never understood why some

people hate me. I learned to ignore

them. It doesn’t matter. More people

love me, and I love them. It was

my fate: to love, to heal, to write

the way a woman writes, to be a

master. as good as any man, a sister

to Shakespeare. Whatever happens,

I must keep writing. It’s what I

leave behind me. And I’ve seen

into so many souls. It’s a lot to

ask of anyone, but I never have

objected. I wanted to see, to love,

to fight, to heal, to do my very best.

Being Wise Fifty-Nine

   

Nonna   Slepakova, Russsian poet and translator, Komarovo 1995

Being Wise Fifty-Nine March 20, 2022

I’m alive. Remember to remember.

The days pass slowly. I’m not in pain.

Only a few twinges that don’t linger.

I read and write, make lasagna and

tunafish salad, wash dishes, make

my bed, drink hot lemon grass

ginger tea, take my pills, talk to

friends by email, and to Tim when

he’s home and awake. My heart

still goes along steadily. I fall

asleep when I don’t want to, and

stay awake when I want to sleep.

Outside I see the volunteer peach

tree blossoms opening. The carpenter

bees are busy among them. The

earth is alive, too. Janet plants beets

and sugar snap peas. The onions get

growth spurts. It rains more often.

Sun and rain produce their magic.

It’s a good time to be alive.

Being Wise Fifty--eight

                                                 Vera Belikh with her paintings

Being Wise Fifty-Eight March 13, 2022

I watched the time change at three

in the morning. We’re back to cold,

bitter cold, and I couldn’t sleep. I

drink hot tea and consider my loves.

People do love me, and I worry

about them. It always comes as a

surprise that I am loved. I wonder

why. Is it my seeing? I do see. We

all have it–that inner need to be

seen as we truly are, faults and all.

It came with age and stayed. 

 I’m so imperfect but blessed 

in a hundred ways, I’ll soon 

be eighty-five, and my last book 

will appear.It’s time to celebrate. 

I’ve had a good life. 

I’m whole and healed.

Being Wise Fifty-Seven

Aleksei and Nadya Belikh, Kostroma painters near the Volga River

Being Wise Fifty-Seven March 6, 2022

I live by days, days of the week.

Monthly days. I have to make

myself remember what day it is.

I lost my garden seeds. I’m still

looking, but they seem to have

vanished. I’ll search a little

longer. I’ve lost and found other

things. They must be here unless

the mice ate them. That must be

a fantasy. A packet full of seeds

to disappear like that? Don’t

give up yet. They must be here

somewhere..