fog's sake

This is what greeted us late afternoon today. It was very silent for a Sunday and yes, beautiful. But not my beautiful.

It has been a shitty week with seemingly endless cramps and bloating and all the heavy stuff that goes with it. There are times when I hang from the door frame like a woman in labour, followed by long hot showers. More often, I feel the urge to drop the grin from the grin and bear it approach and instead kick the door frame or whatever else comes my way. Which is when R thinks it's time for the ER but so far, none of the real emergency events have occurred that I have been informed should neccessitate such a trip (vomit, blood, fever). This started after I had a strange imaging procedure on Wed morning, involving a sticky toothpaste like barium paste, and things have been going downhill since. I am hoping for an uphill turn eventually. The intestine is such a massive disappointment currently. Somehow I do believe I am on the way to possibly have some of it removed. I wonder when the day comes. Meanwhile, food intake is tricky.

My daughter was almost in tears when I told her this morning that I don't see myself going out for a meal ever again. The life of the young loses meaning without sushi or pizza. I told her that I have had my share of delicatessen, some of which I would not eat again even if healthy (octopus, bat, pig's glands, snake, escargots) and that I have excellent and fond memories of eating in amazing places on several continents. It calmed her down a bit.

The silver lining in all this is of course being retired, having time and place for distraction, for the making of bland soups in their endless variations, for gardening and staring into space while sitting in a deck chair wrapped in several warm blankets, for watching the jays flying in to elegantly pick the peanuts I place on the patio for them. Also, we cycled through glorious sunny forests yesterday and sat down for coffee in the Portuguese cafe where I watched R munch a warm pasteis de nata. Now that is something I wish to eat again one day. 

And of course, reading, this not for the first time, but the book is so amazing:

So I think there was one moment in the evolution of human language that marked a dividing line: before it we were not yet human, but after it we where.

It was probably the smalles thing, neither heroic or grand. More than likely, it was the intimate moment, probably late in the evening in the low blue quiet before dreaming, when a single human being told the very first story.

I doubt it was told to a group. If anything, it probably took shape between two people who already spent most of their time trying to talk to each other: a fussy child who needed to sleep and a mother who needed to sleep even more.

Cat Bohannon in: Eve, How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution (2023)

And finally, a poem that spells autumn for me:

    

 

Rock Me, Mercy 

    The river stones are listening
    because we have something to say.
    The trees lean closer today.
    The singing in the electrical woods
    has gone dumb. It looks like rain
    because it is too warm to snow.
    Guardian angels, wherever you’re hiding,
    we know you can’t be everywhere at once.
    Have you corralled all the pretty wild
    horses? The memory of ants asleep
    in daylilies, roses, holly, & larkspur.
    The magpies gaze at us, still
    waiting. River stones are listening.
    But all we can say now is,
    Mercy, please, rock me.

 

Yusef Komunyakaa

the news today

The garden is all autumn.

The cabbage season beckons.

The eight xmas cacti came inside and promptly started to produce buds. 

We walked for a couple of hours in the forest 

 

 

 to visit a waterfall

 

and marvel at the horizon

 

I am living in the country where in my parent's lifetime, books were burned, people were persecuted for their political, religious, personal opinions, children with disabilities were selected and institutionally murdered, where the Holocaust was invented and carried out with great precision. I am also living in a country with a long history of great thinkers, creative artists, composers, architects, painters, inventors.

In most towns and cities in my country, there are memorials, statues, museums, stepping stones, monuments, signposts, street names, commemorating resistance fighters, Jewish or Roma or Sinti or gay or otherwise persecuted citizens.

One set of my grandparents were nazis, the other tried to avoid any involvement with them, tried to keep out of it and did nothing. My parents went to school at a time when flags with the swastika were on every building, when almost all activities, from sports to music, chess to scouting were under nazi control. Both my parents remembered friends, neighbours, shop owners, public figures disappearing. My family made it through twelve years of fascist rule, too many wounds and scars to count, but safe and apart from one cousin killed in Russia alive.

Until most recently, we would almost laugh out loud when someone like trump used the word fascist or nazi. You haven't the faintest, we muttered, your idea is based on a cheap Hollywood version where the good guys win.  But now I am not so sure any more. I read this here today by Heather Cox Richardson:

Examining a number of types of Americans, she wrote that the line between democracy and fascism was not wealth, or education, or race, or age, or nationality. “Kind, good, happy, gentlemanly, secure people never go Nazi,” she wrote. They were secure enough to be good natured and open to new ideas, and they believed so completely in the promise of American democracy that they would defend it with their lives, even if they seemed too easygoing to join a struggle. “But the frustrated and humiliated intellectual, the rich and scared speculator, the spoiled son, the labor tyrant, the fellow who has achieved success by smelling out the wind of success—they would all go Nazi in a crisis,” she wrote. “Those who haven’t anything in them to tell them what they like and what they don’t—whether it is breeding, or happiness, or wisdom, or a code, however old-fashioned or however modern, go Nazi.”

Read the entire letter, I urge everybody and not just in the US. This could happen anywhere. Trump, coronavirus, the Russian attack on Ukraine and Hamas terrorism have only been the triggers that have made a change visible, which in turn lies more in the reactions to these events. Epidemics, wars and terrorist organisations have happened before. The insecurity they trigger has more to do with the fact that we cannot find an appropriate response to them. We withdraw, stop reading the news, shrug and concentrate on the mundane, dinners, shopping, gardening. There don't seem to be any institutions left to handle crises effectively. Instead, it looks more and more that it's not who is right that wins, but simply who is stronger. Is it just me that finds this scary? 

There are days when I try to reassure myself that all fascist states have failed eventually and utterly, some sooner  (Germany 12 years), a few lasted longer (Portugal, Spain), but they collapsed nevertheless. 

Because: people stopped them. People. Like us. We are people.

Also, climate change could speed it all up dramatically.

 

no children

 

Today, we were meant to attend a wedding in a castle in Ireland, the whole shebang, dress code, timetable on specially printed stationary, cousins and counsins and cousins and eventually food and drink followed by speeches and dancing. But, printed on page 2 of the invitation with exclamation mark, strictly no children. I was conflicted, debating how to react and so on. We had composed a friendly letter wishing them a lovely day (without adding the snarky stuff like hoping there would not be any foolish mess, that nobody would be knocking down the decorations or singing out of tune or otherwise mess with the protocol) and declined due to other stuff like a couple of health issues and medical exams and so on - chronic illness comes in handy at time - and so, we are not going and won't really be missed. I haven't been to many weddings as we come from a generation of people who, if it had to happen, opted for the potluck variety and kept it down to a minimum of commercial fuss. My idea of a wedding is bit like a barn dance thing with kites flying and a couple of very cosy bean bags for the older relatives, a hot tub under the full moon and many candles. But it seems times have changed. No children.

As a sort of punishment, today, I feel like mush, shaky, tired mush.
For the last couple of hours I have been debating with myself about going out, walking down to the river - at least that far! - or maybe take the bicycle and get some cottage cheese and a fresh bag of peanuts for the jays, or find any other excuse reason to get up and move.

There's this thing that I have cultivated in the last year or so, the thing about pushing myself no matter what. And usually, it works. By the time I am up and outside walking or cycling or doing yoga or cleaning the fridge, wiping down basement walls, scrubbing the skirting boards or raking up leaves from the front door steps, I am energised and fine. For a while. I actually did rake the leaves earlier and come to think of it, I did scrub the skirting boards, even cleaned away a million spiderwebs from behind the radiators and changed the sheets on the beds this morning.
There was a time when I actually felt somehow strangely entitled to Take It Easy and taught myself to Own It and all that stuff they tell you when you are first diagnosed with a chronic illness. For reasons unknown (today), I have left all that behind or at least pretend that I did. Look at me, I would tell that woman in the hall mirror, I am off to walk 20,000 steps and when I come back, I will clean the 12 windows downstairs or dust behind the bookshelves for another hour. Meanwhile, the man tells me that I had very little sleep last night and that in his opinion, I should maybe better not . . . I get it.

 

It is still possible to be kind to yourself,
to drop constraints and fall often
to your knees, it’s not too late now, to bow
to what beckons, the world still swimming
around you as you kneel transfigured
by what sweeps on, it’s still possible
to leave every fearful former self
in the wake of newly-heard words
issuing from an astonished mouth.

David Whyte

autumn week

It's been a hard week, physically, but the mood has been surprisingly cheerful. We are eleven days into October, then comes November, December and before we know it, the days will get longer again. Time flies. Autumn is late this year, colourwise. 

 

 

This is the cemetery I visit quite often. At this time of the year, it really should not be that green. 

Temperaturewise (is that a word?) it's autumn, I wore my winter jacket for the first time this evening.

 

We harvested all the pumpkins and have eaten some already, here's the rest.

 

 

 

Basically, I am exhausted. But not always, not all the time. I wouldn't be able to hold down a job right now. My siblings are confused, tell me how well I look and how fit I am, what with walking and stuff. 

A person with a chronic disease should not look so normal.

Anyway, been through this so many times.

Here are two nice little videos that came my way this week, first from rural New Zealand:

next from a laundry room near you:

Between two hospital procedures

Without much discussion or preparation, we took the car and drove south on the slow country roads, turning uphill at the valley entrance. The road got narrower as it wound its way up and up, it came to an end beside an old chapel where we parked the car. It was sunny but quite chilly, we walked briskly. 

The view was spectacular, the forest welcoming and silent.

Eventually, we needed coffee and other types of sustenance, so we made our way back to the car. Isn't it great to be retired, R said while he drove us home.