I thought I was being clever creating a unique email address for this blog. But then the pandemic hit, my sister died, and I just gave up on some things.
Like the blog.
So it was a hassle recovering my blog.
And I think I am ready to return to poetry, not that poetry has missed me.
My brother died recently, and I am grieving in a weird way. ANGRY, sad, angry, sad. So angry.
Writing might help.
I am pursuing helping others with literacy growth in a big way, tutoring ESL, GED, and teaching literacy classes–in my retirement. This lets me know how much I value literacy.
My trusty OLD laptop died, and I replaced it right away. This lets me know how much I value literacy.
As I try to recover old documents, I am trying to find more than 1/3 of a MILLION documents created. This lets me know how much I value literacy. As I read some of my poetry and fiction/ nonfiction, I find pieces I want to edit and revise.
I need to get the twitter bashers out of my mind’s eye, for they almost took away my desire to write poetry. Use the wrong word or use the wrong voice and you can be canceled, vilified.
So here’s to grief (again? still?) and a continuing pandemic I’d like to write away. That won’t happen, but perhaps I can find the joy of creation once again if I stop listening to the voices of the poet and poetry bashers who seem to pounce if a wrong word or tone or voice is used, even unwittingly, even when trying to create art. (Persona poems are one of my favorite types.)
And here’s to writing down passwords and email logins somewhere else!
Poetry has left me during this pandemic. When the world and others are deemed as not safe, this HSP has become HYPER vigilant, resulting in poor sleep and increasing bad habits.
I know I have so many privileges. I know that, but as the saying goes, nothing is ever truly forgotten.
So I had my spring plants/ flowers daily watch, and it was wonderful. Crocus, scylla, trilium, May apples, Virginia bluebells and more. I took some online classes. I tutor and continue to tutor.
And perhaps poetry will come back. During this pandemic, I cannot say that poetry has saved me, for the trauma is primitive and only after some relief from trauma can I return to art, to poetry. If poetry never returns, there is life, love, nature, beauty. Poetry in their own way.
Twenty years of complicated trauma plus four years of being stalked by a violent “friend” taught about being hyper vigilant–for more than six decades. Have her injured and retired much earlier than planned, and just beginning to find her way during this retirement. Have her proud for not overreacting for news of a novel virus; no, this time she will not stock up or freak out. It’s on the other side of the world, right? Right? Add grief for a lost sister and a state of shock about her new reality.
Add the pandemic.
Click. Knowing she is privileged. Knowing how many are suffering physically and emotionally. Guilt over privilege. I know, she will give up something she loves, make a sacrifice. Bye bye, poetry. She will volunteer more and more, to help others. She finds students who need help and mails lessons, materials, makes phone calls. Tutors.
Click. Husband forced retired early due to pandemic. Lucky, lucky they are and they know it. Able to do this, rather than face the pandemic daily, face first, face to face.
Click. His former employer is no longer paying him since he doesn’t work there anymore. He’s having to deal with sudden retirement.
And they are lucky, and they know it. Yet it is scary to have to be so worried about money once again, after five decades of working hard to get out of debt and be sufficient.
It is, however, a recipe for constriction, a recipe to kill poetry. It is a recipe for clenched jaws that make her jaw muscles so strong, they could snap wire. CLICK, CLICK, CLICK.
See, see what happens that one time you decide not to be hyper vigilant, not to worry and stock up.
The days are okay, for there is sunlight and she forces herself to take nature walks, one thing not denied. It’s healthy to walk. Stay away from others on the path, wear a mask.
But the nights close in and find nightmares returning, ruminations, constrictions. Worries. More rumination. This is not what she had planned for retirement. She knows how lucky she is. She misses people more than she can say. She likes people. She misses her sister. She is with grief and night, grief for the pandemic, for the loss of her sister, for the “so that was my career” thoughts. She uses carbs to calm herself. All the carbs.
I knew somehow this would happen, she thinks. I am getting older by the day. I’ll never be able to enjoy retirement. I miss work. I miss teaching. I am living a meaningless life right now, helping no one and doing nothing, she thinks, even while knowing she would never judge another this harshly.
She walks more during the day, even on the days when the windchill is dangerous. She only stops on the days when the house door is frozen shut. Not trusting the gym during an airborne virus pandemic, she walks the halls at night and frets.
Be hyper vigilant. There is a killer novel virus. Stay away from others. Wash those hands very often. Be hyper vigilant. You should have been hyper vigilant. See? Told you so.
Twenty years of complicated trauma plus four years of being stalked by a violent “friend” taught about being hyper vigilant. For more than six decades. Did you suddenly forget important life lessons?
Before the pandemic, she was writing a lot of poetry and publishing; after the pandemic, the constriction, the clenched jaws and the nightmares prohibit poetry.
More or less. Things are opening up now. She is trying not to over react to words such as variant. She is trying to relax enough to read poetry. She is trying to write again, to write poetry. She has found nature classes online bring joy and looking up and looking down while walking in the woods shows her the unimaginable beauties she never saw before in her work, work, work, work days.
She thinks about a pandemic, privilege, and poetry. She knows deeply how lucky she has been. She knows that her mind and body didn’t seem to care, that she reacted at a primitive level of survival. She knows she should be more relaxed and joyful as the new pandemic rules ease up, as people are able to socialize again, get out more again. She knows it is much safer now than fifteen months ago. She knows it’s her rotten trauma responses keeping her on the edge, hyper vigilant, getting her mind full of stinking thinking. She knows how much she misses her career, teaching, and misses people. She knows she should lighten up.
On 7-21-1970, I was walking to work (one hour walk there, one hour walk home…to work two hours…) and thinking, oh man, I have to work until I’m 65? I was flipping burgers, cleaning tables, working with the public.
Folks, I am 65 years old today. To say I am stunned would be true, for how did this happen so quickly?
Wait, there were many long days and nights–but so much went so quickly!
I had a business career and then a teaching career. I am still teaching after retirement and loving it. I am tutoring, writing poetry, and living as well as I can.
***As to grief, picking up a bottle of Aleve yesterday had me crying over my sister. I miss having a sister so much. I would send her or bring her Aleve for she was in pain for so many years. I looked at the long list of things I brought to her and ordered for her and could almost chart her decline that way. At first they would just be gifts or nice things for her apartment. And little by little they became necessities to keep her from excruciating pain. How horrible to live for 40 years in excruciating pain. I’m very sorry that happened to her and I miss her a lot.
Looking back now I can see she knew that her end near and that she had made peace with this.
Towards the last half year of her life, my sister wasn’t able to read, drive, walk sleep. She had a series of agonizing painful days. Towards the very end, she forgot how to use the telephone. She kept losing things such as her phone and would be on the floor for days. She wanted to stay living alone on her own and refused living with anyone else. That was her right. That’s how she wanted it. Adamantly. Still, it was very sad seeing her not able to use the phone, remember her phone number, or even remember that if she touched the number on her phone screen she could dial her number. She got very afraid at the end because she knew she couldn’t remember things. We think it was brain cancer or loss of oxygen to the brain.
My sister was not very compliant with hospice wishes. She wanted to live on her terms and then die. And that’s what she did.
Still, she did manage to go out for coffee one last time and flirt with the wait staff. She wanted one more Christmas holiday but that was not to be, so I will make sure to celebrate for the both of us.
And life goes on on my end. I’m retired but still teaching. Tutoring. Writing poetry.
I am now the age she was when she passed away last year and I will soon be older than my older sister ever was.I know it was horrible pain for her at the end especially, but I miss my sister very much.
(Photo taken by me at the Chicago Windows, the Art Institute of Chicago, artist Marc Chagall.)
Last night I came into bed late, as I often do, and my early- to- bed husband was chuckling, mumbling something to me about dreaming about his best friend Tommy who passed away in 2005. He told me the entire dream from start to finish and I will remember it. My husband was trying to help Tommy get home from the “hospital on the lake in the woods”and his friend kept hiding or getting stuckin a big hollow tree that had fallen down. This friend always had a wry smile on his face and it wasn’t clear to my husband if he was fooling around, being playful like when they were kids, or if Tommy was in some type of danger. Somehow he got stuck in this tree and was all covered with twigs and dirt. My husband was chuckling as he talked about it, for his friend was like a big hairy woodland creature,and I thought of how we process grief in different ways.
My husband is not a talker, and I am. I have talked and written about my grief of losing a number of loved ones, talked about it in therapy grief groups, written about it in my blog, written poems about it. Grief is an ever present companion for me, and I do verbalize it. I sometimes cry, I often talk to my grief.
My husband is very different in that respect. He’s never mentioned his mother, his dear friend, his brother, or any other loved ones who have passed. Not even his father who passed away not too long ago.
Do I dream about any of my loved ones or friends who have left? Rarely. Most of my dreams are still about trying to find a classroom or trying to find my teaching materials or about trying to find time to use the bathroom. (The teaching baggage is left over, even into retirement.). I wonder if other teachers dream about the bathroom!
I’m very touched by my husband’s dream of trying to help his friend in that big log. I’m glad he was able to chuckle about it. His friend did remind me of a big bear in many ways, and I could just see him in a big downed tree covered with leaves and dirt. I can hear his deep voice always making jokes. Tommy was the eldest in a huge family, and was the boss, the elder brother and always had what my husband called a shit-eating grin on his face.
And I wonder how our dreams will be changed by our shelter in place/quarantine of the 2020 pandemic? In the future, will we have many more dreams of hiding, being caught in tight places, of suffocation?
I continue to talk, write, sometimes even cry. My dear husband, the person I love most in this world, dreams about departed friends in big hollow logs covered with leaves, twigs and mud, and chuckling.
The history of the poem arises from when I taught ELL years ago. It was around 2002. I taught with a colleague who was a refugee from Sarajevo. She survived the siege–and the stories she told still haunt me.
Just a few snippets, since I hope to submit a revised/ edited full version for publication and don’t want to have this considered published.
Moth to a Fake flame
Candle, lit To accompany
Mid summer’s night Solitude
White flint Small gold flutter
(I wanted to see what I could do with this learning and healing time. Can I observe more? Can I see what I don’t really see on a busy workday? What do you do, what do I do with those middle of the night silences? The crickets have stops singing. The cicadas have not yet started their trilling. And I am waiting to learn when the robins start their dawn songs.
I shall find out soon.
I hear frogs now. They’ve joined us.
And I’m trying to find out what can I do with my limited mobility and access right now to Technology.
This was created in the hopes of making meaning out of silence and pain.
Dare I send from my iPhone? So unliterary.
But this to me also speaks of the power of literacy to sustain.