A placekeeping-post quoting NYTimes opinion piece which you may or may not be able to read in full here.
Pamela Paul starts by outlining the view that one should only write/create about one’s own experience and then continues below.
Back when the controversial Emmett Till painting was in the news, I started collecting quotes like these. Maybe later I’ll link to them. Don’t hold your breath.
It’s cold here. I planted creeping phlox and more pansies this weekend.
Yesterday was not a good day for a bunch of reasons. I’m glad to find myself fully rested this Monday morning, ready to get busy, reconsider things, forgive.
And speaking of points-of-view, it looks like Musk and twitter may reach a deal today. It’s widely believed that the libertarian billionaire will immediately replatform trump.
The amount of psychic energy required to finish my manuscript and begin the querying process was substantial but also invisible. It really tanked my cloth and collage work. I kept thinking something was wrong, but nothing’s wrong.
Spring brings with it a rising energy. This year I plan to ride that wave with attention to finishing. Finish. Finish. Finish.
Oh, and I plan on starting things too. I’m seesawing between two possible topics for a new novel. Many pages already written. I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be contemporary. Enough with parlors and drays, small pox and reticules. You won’t hear a specific thing about it til it’s done this time (she said).
I’ve become a ridiculous puzzle hound. Jigsaw puzzles. Wordle AND quordle. Daily NYTimes crossword puzzle and Spelling Bee. Every day!
Enough. I’ll be spending a lot more time outdoors.
I’ll be binding quilts.
I’ll be reading.
Kimono House #1Kimono House #2Adding houses to old butterfly quilt; small simple collage printed on fabric to the left
Life goal met — there are pansies on the property! Last year we waited too long and there were none to be had. My mother loved pansies too.
For Easter, we used to hide treasure-filled plastic eggs in the yard, pack baskets with glorious chocolates and jelly beans, and serve up a special dinner for extended family. One year I made a batch of chow-chow to dress the asparagus. Another year I made carrots out of marzipan for the top of the carrot cake.
This year, I am making a carrot cake. That’s it. No marzipan. No company.
The space created by a less-populated social calendar continues to feel more blessing than not. I like my friends, I like my relatives, and still this is true.
On a related note, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about K’s absence as he trudged back to the office and I’m still not sure, but this morning the quiet is glorious.
Have I really used the word glorious twice in one post? What besides chocolate and silence can be glorious?
Soft scarves, dry socks, insight, a welcome email, a piece of writing, a hot bath.
Also: Indictments. Perp walks. Lost law licenses. Exclusion from holding public office. Tarnished reputations. Huge fines. Ankle bracelets. Media bans and gag orders. Jail time.
Kushner is in the news again. If the beltway press wasn’t so hopelessly tied to GOP talking points, the Kushner news would be loud and pervasive. And of course, had a Democrat’s son-in-law done anything remotely this corrupt or dangerous to national security, the coverage on Fox would be nonstop with belligerent threats of hearings should leadership in the House change.
The building could have a 666 on it but I suppose that would be overkill.
So as not to end on such a vile note, the photo from Assisi (below) showcases an Easter bread, blessed by a priest two days earlier and served in an olive grove.
The list of things imposing misery right now is quite long. Ukraine is never far from mind. For many of my friends, Russia’s atrocities are personal.
Things I’ve heard in the last month from people I am close to:
My mother grew up in Belarus.
My grandparents are Russian Jews, but from areas now Ukraine.
I just found out that I have a relative from Poland who died in the Holocaust. I was named after her.
I’m have very little family history, which is traumatizing too.
My grandfather grew up in Odessa.
I didn’t realize that H’s mother was Ukrainian.
Meanwhile, it’s Monday and K has gone into the office. He will travel into Boston every day this week. It strikes me as a signature Covid experience how the familiar becomes strange and the strange becomes familiar. Example: in spite of this being my husband’s commuting routine for decades before the pandemic, it now feels a little weird, a little dangerous, a little not-normal.
Also today: I get to make a friend lunch and we won’t have to be quiet because K is on the phone at his workstation (aka the kitchen table).
For the first time since Covid arrived, we took the dog to Wellesley campus for a walk. It was a little cooler than expected but beautiful and because of spring break, emptier than usual.
Driving home we passed the low-slung brick building where I went for prenatal care back in the 90’s. I couldn’t remember the name of my midwife, even though she delivered both boys. Michelle, maybe. Diane?
But K and I had a good laugh concerning something I did remember from C’s birth.
First, I have to say that the nurses attending both boys’ births were absolute angels. They could not have been more competent or more kind.
Second, I had opted not to rely on pain medication and managed (just barely) to stick to that, so just about every ounce of consciousness was taken up with the business of riding each contraction. Further, because of how my labor didn’t really speed up until the very end, after a dozen hours of labor, I was falling asleep in between contractions. What I’m trying to tell you is that I was a little out of it.
So when K told me that one of the nurses had been by, without thinking I responded, “Was it the hairlip or the hunchback?”
It sounds like a dream but it was not. I’m not proud of my blurt and hope I can be forgiven for lacking even my usual minimal filters because of the intensity of the birth experience.
But can you imagine? One four-and-half-foot tall nurse dramatically bent over, the other with a deformed upper lip. And again: both angels.
