Being Wise Fifty-Five

     Yuri Lebedev in his dacha garden

Being Wise Fifty-Five February 20, 2022

I dreamt I was falling. I was awake and then suddenly

asleep and falling. My arms went out to catch myself.

I was awake and lying flat. I pushed the covers off

and put on my shoes. Orange light behind the curtains.

It was after eight. I heated tea, added honey. Hot, sweet

tea helps me stay awake and warm enough. I wanted

to remember my archetype: Healer, yes. Shakespeare’s

sister–that appeal for my words to touch the lives of

other people. A beloved partnership. Yes, I had/have

my loved man. Then mastery. Elusive but finally

captured in Kostroma, my Russian city. Yuri found

it among my words. How lucky I’ve been and am.

I won’t fall. I’m grounded now.

Being Wise Fifty-Four

Judy and Sheila Crump after a Gospel Sing in Moncure, part of our fight against coal ash dumping in our community a few years ago.

Being Wise Fifty-Four February 13, 2022

Orange light through the curtain

means time to get up. Another day,

another poem. Full daylight. I put

my shoes on, retrieve my library

book, toast bread, heat tea, turn off

some lights, turn on others. No one

told me I’d be given so much love

in my eighties. I’m grateful–or joy

from books I’ve read before. The days

pass slowly, inevitably, one after

another. I’m not forgotten. Painful

moments come and go. Then vanish.

They weren’t that important. I let them

go, think of friends far away. I’m okay.

I hope they’re okay, too.

Being Wise Fifty-Three

                Judy signing Dean's book at a book party.  

Being Wise Fifty-three February 6, 2022

Friends return. One to ask how I am.

One to buy a book, which I sign for

her. My students laugh with me and

accept my bossiness. All these things,

which I’ve had before, are more precious

now. I’m valued. We can laugh at our

foibles. I tell the story of my latest fall.

I landed on my bottom, and recovered

quickly. Tim untangled me from my

walker and pulled me up. We laughed.

And one of my helpers, whom i thought

wouldn’t return, came back, and we

worked on my books again. I forgot

how some things are constant. They’re

part of you. They don’t disappear. If

things are good, they stay and stay.

 

Being Wise Fifty-Two

Judy's flower garden 2021,cosmos photo by Janet Wyatt

Another snow. This time the cars

rush by fast. We use space heaters

and our woodstove to keep warm.

I lay awake for hours, then slept

hard four more. The light behind

the window curtains is bright orange.

I remember then and dive in now.

I scrambled to think of a supper

we both like. A sweet potato for

me; fried potatoes for Tim, and 

omelet for us both. Sometimes

I can’t stay awake, and other

times I can’t sleep. But my mind

does pretty well mostly. And I’m

loved. How terrible it would be

if I weren’t loved. I have my

limits, but I do okay. Let it be

what it is. I still flourish one

way or another. And those who

love me, grieve for me, and

then I grieve, too.

Being Wise Fifty-One

 Nadya and Aleksei Belikh in Kostroma, Russia a few years ago.

Being Wise Fifty-One January 23, 2022

Soft winter until now. Chilly

in the morning, but sunny afternoons.

Like spring. Then sleet and snow

sticking to the grass, the trees,

the planted onions, the roads,

stranding the cars. Where’s the

snowplow? In Finland it would

have been out hours ago. Tim

wanted to do the wash today.

His feet will be in the snow.

It’s quite stuck to the land

now, ice underneath the snow.

A second cup of tea helps.

A blanked over my legs,

a space heater. Our woodstove

sputters and goes out. Then

it smokes. When you can warm

a corner of the house, bundle

up and live there. Snow is a

gift whenever it falls.

And you have lights. Hallelujah.

Being Wise Fifty

left to right, Dick, Gracie, and Margaret, my mother, her brother and sister in China, 1917.

Being Wise Fifty January 16, 2022

We made bread with new yeast, and Tim

helped me knead. It proved very sticky when

I put it into pans. Then we scorched the top.

The yeast kept it in loaf shape, and the inside

is perfect. Live and learn. It should have come

out sooner, but we all enjoyed it with our salmon

supper treat. No sign now of rain or ice. A little

snow on the garden rows. Our lights still work.

Tim has wood ready in case we need it, and he

split some for our guest. Some would see my

quiet life as dull. Not I. I like to read and to

write. I make more typos, but I can fix them.

Fifty poems I’ve spoken aloud last year and

now this year. My mind doesn’t hesitate

to tell its stories. I’m alive. I can still make

bread we all love. Outside all is quiet.

Inside, too.

Being Wise Forty-Nine

 Judy photo taken by her sister in late August 2021

Being Wise Forty-Nine January 9, 2022

There was a time when I felt no pain

in a normal day. Now I do, especially

when I wake up and sit up, and when

I first lie down at night. Related to my

falls maybe? Or to my disease? Last

night I was almost limp. This morning

I could see daylight beyond the curtains.

It was time to get up. Do I complain

now or simply endure? There may not

be any cure. I try hard now not to fall.

It’s a chore to drag my walker around

but I do it. I am alive, right? And the

medicine still helps. I’d like to live\

until my last book comes out. And

worse pains may lie ahead. But many

good things happen, too. My students

return to learn from me. I have help

with chores. Tim carries dishes to the

table for me. I dropped his cucumbers.

Having fed baby twins some years ago,

one at a time in the highchair, the one

on the floor eating what the other

one dropped, my standards changed.

I rinsed off the cucumber slices.

So I adapt to some pains and do

the best I can. I’m not unhappy.