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ForestMulch of Leave
Nov. 9th, 2018 10:32 pmIt's here. SNOW. I woke up this morning and before I could even focus my eyes, I sensed that particular kind of white light that comes from snow all around. There was enough to cover the final scatter of leaves that still lie on everyone's yard, and enough to coat each twig of my window tree. It kept snowing most of the day, but once the sun was well up, it wasn't quite cold enough for the snow to stick very long. They say we'll have more tonight.
I've been beset by a sense of total lethargy for the last couple of days. I don't want to do anything. The snow gave me a good excuse, because the Sparrowhawk made a fire in the fireplace in the living room. It was the perfect place to veg with my blankie and watch the white stuff eddy in the wind. There's no TV in the living room, on purpose. It's a peaceful place for looking out the window and listening to music. I put on a CD called "The Scent of Light," which combines some poems of Hafiz with some slightly weird musical accompaniment. Hafiz says, "A poet is someone who can pour light into a cup, then raise it to nourish your beautiful parched holy mouth."
In addition to the lethargy, I'm having bouts of anxiety that attack and fade like a chronic aching tooth or a bad knee. It's about several things. One of them, I'm sure, is my mother. If I know I have to go and see her, I live in dread for the whole week beforehand. It's not her that I dread; it's just the whole process. It gets worse in the winter. I've been doing this for years now--first my father, then my mother. You'd think I would get used to it and it would become easy, but that never seems to happen with me. Her mind is not clear right now. I'd be more worried if I hadn't looked at an old notebook from 2015 and found she had an episode of the same thing back then, and pulled out of it. Still, I know it can't keep getting better forever. Sooner or later the downward trail has no upward turning. I want to be there, but I don't want to GO there, which I suppose doesn't make any sense at all.
Since it was a good day for indoor things, I finished repackaging the photos from my father's memorial service from the three-fold display board to a photo album. This took longer than I thought it should, but it's done, and that pleases me. No more guilty feeling of that dumb photo board cluttering up the attic. Later in the afternoon, I forced myself to put on actual clothing and go out for a walk, though the snow was still sifting down. I put on my woolly socks and LL Bean boots, and my customary winter layers of a light wool sweater and my old jacket, and the wool and alpaca headband my friend Master J handknit for me. I was okay without mittens. I should have taken a scarf, though. There's a reason all those Dickensian workers who can't afford warm coats wear a muffler. There's nothing like it to protect your face and neck and keep the warmth in. It felt good to trudge through the wind, constantly pinged by tiny flying bits of ice. The wet ground was inlaid with spangles of gold where the fallen leaves were trodden into it in a mosaic of color.
The Sparrowhawk went to his book club in the evening--the one where he gets to gossip afterwards with a friend from his old workplace. Word on the street is that Evil Boss, who got riffed himself in the recent reorganization, was having an affair with some unwise young person in the office. I was meanly amused. On the one hand, it is too bad for his wife. On the other hand, she is his second wife--he cheated on the first one, and those who marry cheaters seldom get what they think they wanted. And also on the other hand, it is just so typical. He's just another cardboard character in the novel of life, and he's behaving in character. No redemptive arc for that guy.
I've been beset by a sense of total lethargy for the last couple of days. I don't want to do anything. The snow gave me a good excuse, because the Sparrowhawk made a fire in the fireplace in the living room. It was the perfect place to veg with my blankie and watch the white stuff eddy in the wind. There's no TV in the living room, on purpose. It's a peaceful place for looking out the window and listening to music. I put on a CD called "The Scent of Light," which combines some poems of Hafiz with some slightly weird musical accompaniment. Hafiz says, "A poet is someone who can pour light into a cup, then raise it to nourish your beautiful parched holy mouth."
In addition to the lethargy, I'm having bouts of anxiety that attack and fade like a chronic aching tooth or a bad knee. It's about several things. One of them, I'm sure, is my mother. If I know I have to go and see her, I live in dread for the whole week beforehand. It's not her that I dread; it's just the whole process. It gets worse in the winter. I've been doing this for years now--first my father, then my mother. You'd think I would get used to it and it would become easy, but that never seems to happen with me. Her mind is not clear right now. I'd be more worried if I hadn't looked at an old notebook from 2015 and found she had an episode of the same thing back then, and pulled out of it. Still, I know it can't keep getting better forever. Sooner or later the downward trail has no upward turning. I want to be there, but I don't want to GO there, which I suppose doesn't make any sense at all.
Since it was a good day for indoor things, I finished repackaging the photos from my father's memorial service from the three-fold display board to a photo album. This took longer than I thought it should, but it's done, and that pleases me. No more guilty feeling of that dumb photo board cluttering up the attic. Later in the afternoon, I forced myself to put on actual clothing and go out for a walk, though the snow was still sifting down. I put on my woolly socks and LL Bean boots, and my customary winter layers of a light wool sweater and my old jacket, and the wool and alpaca headband my friend Master J handknit for me. I was okay without mittens. I should have taken a scarf, though. There's a reason all those Dickensian workers who can't afford warm coats wear a muffler. There's nothing like it to protect your face and neck and keep the warmth in. It felt good to trudge through the wind, constantly pinged by tiny flying bits of ice. The wet ground was inlaid with spangles of gold where the fallen leaves were trodden into it in a mosaic of color.
The Sparrowhawk went to his book club in the evening--the one where he gets to gossip afterwards with a friend from his old workplace. Word on the street is that Evil Boss, who got riffed himself in the recent reorganization, was having an affair with some unwise young person in the office. I was meanly amused. On the one hand, it is too bad for his wife. On the other hand, she is his second wife--he cheated on the first one, and those who marry cheaters seldom get what they think they wanted. And also on the other hand, it is just so typical. He's just another cardboard character in the novel of life, and he's behaving in character. No redemptive arc for that guy.
