Well it’s not quite living on Mars but it’s 10:30 and still dark with only a red glow. I keep taking pictures trying to capture it but it can’t be captured. It’s a feel, a disorientation, a focus on not understanding.
What is going on?
My phone keeps ringing as people check in. What should we do, and of course there’s nothing we can do, not right now.
My ten month old grandson calls on FaceTime. His light blue “onesie” says “My parents are voting for Joe.” His smile, laugh, and clapping hands lift and light my heart.
Yesterday I watched Carl Hiassen interviewed by Dave Barry. I then downloaded his new book Squeeze Me to my Kindle and stayed up until midnight reading the whole thing.
A friend shares that when their power went out on Sunday with the temperature way over 100 degrees, they took their laptop into the garage and sat in their electric car with the air conditioner on and watched a movie. It was like being at a drive-in, and, of course, with the pandemic, drive-ins are back. We’re being creative as long and as much as we can. We rejoice and celebrate to balance fear and despair.
A few weeks ago an 85 year old friend fell and was unconscious before she was found. Her memory is sketchy at this point and yet those who visit her, only a few, so as not to overwhelm and overload, speak of her happiness, innocence, and joy.
I read of her light, and how she, a major meditator, doesn’t remember what meditation is, but she does remember prayer.
My husband’s brother had Alzheimer’s and when we went to visit him in a beautiful place with a garden, I felt we were with the Angels. I sat at a table outside, and a beautiful, older woman, seemingly very frail, and yet that fragility was deceptive as she was strong enough to take my hand and trace patterns on the table. We sat together and she led me through a world, her hand and mine.
I’m with that now. I don’t know what it means that I look out the window and it’s dark, and I see the houses across the way have their lights on as do I. I don’t know what anything means right now but I do feel the angels moving their wings even though it’s now 10:45 in the morning and feels like night.
I’m with what guides me now, the feel of gravity under my feet and my sit bones on the chair. I rise in response. I’m with the words, “A moment is a moment” and “It’s how we meet what comes”. How do I meet this moment, and the next, like a ball rolling toward me that I catch and toss and roll, movement carrying me along, connecting a rhythm and ribbon of trust in letting go and receiving what’s mine to learn now, and now, and now.
What’s mine to learn as I sit, though it’s day, looking out at night?