I always forget this time of year is so inhospitable–in its quality and duration of light, in the dread it evokes that is only occasionally contained, in the anxieties masquerading as shared joy. Now that climate change is writ large, we contend with cold rain rather than pretty snow, to boot. Not to mention those tides of change finally, finally rising in Ameriker. Sexton said, “I know that I have died before–once in November.” Amend that to December, please, and pass me an umbrella. Rebirth is very messy.
I’ve been quiet because sometimes social media doesn’t feel like the ideal place to work through the inequities strangling our culture. I’ve been quiet because I don’t want a comment on Facebook or Twitter to make me feel that I’ve done my part. I’ve been quiet because I want to receive the best information I can about how this 40something lady can be of use before I start adding my voice to the conversation. But my quiet has nothing to do with my dissociation from the injustices coming to our attention. I pray we all can take action on the (cellular, systemic) levels on which true change can take place–and I join my heart with all who are already lending their bodies and voices to this struggle, as well as with the many who have lost their loved ones, their lives, their faith.
My permakitten Grace and I have pretty much acclimated to the pigeons who flock on our window sill even though their ubiquity is very odd. But when she and I woke today, a crow–a large, ebony crow!–was staring at both of us. Yellow eyes gleaming, preternaturally still, it was more than a little menacing perched right there on the air-conditioner. Excuse me: Today is Thursday the 13th. These Edgar Allen Poe histrionics are a bit much.