Pretty Fine

It has been a quiet, slow day here in Lloyd.
I did a few things. A little yoga, a little laundry. I have clean, sun-dried sheets on the bed for tonight. The chickens are sleeping on clean straw. The dogs are clean. I took a nap, I read some. I am reading a book by a woman named Liane Moriarty. Did I talk about her before? This book is called What Alice Forgot and it's got an interesting premise. A woman falls and hits her head during spin class at the gym and wakes up having lost the memory of an entire decade of her life.
She does not know her children nor even remember giving birth to them.
She does not know why she's divorcing her beloved husband.
And the author is skillful in handling what could be an overused device and I am enjoying the book a great deal. It is not Great Literature but it is a good story and well done.

And so that, that is about it. I talked to Jessie on the phone and Lily, briefly. Lily went to a party at a park today given in honor of her midwife, Diana Janopaul. She said it was great fun with many babies and toddlers and pregnant ladies. Here's a picture of Gibson being his usual grumpy self.

He had found a leaf.
That boy.

I could have gone but no, I wanted to stay in and so I have.
I watched an episode of the fantastic PBS series, Call The Midwife. 

If you haven't seen any of this series, you really should. It is excellent television, a series based on the diaries of a midwife in the British National Health Organization after WW II. It is very timely in so many ways as it presents birth at home in the least optimal of situations being handled professionally and well by midwives trained and paid by national health care.
And it makes me realize that with the election of Obama, perhaps we, too, could have something approaching this rational way to deal with health care here in our country, and of course, hopefully, our PBS will continue to be funded so that we can enjoy such excellent programs. If you click on the link above, you can watch all of the episodes. For free. With no commercials.
And really- what could be better?

And now I'm listening to Prairie Home Companion on...NPR...another national treasure. And in the oven, a chicken pot pie of sorts is cooking. Yes, I made one for myself and I'll have to share it because it's too much for one person unless that's all I eat for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next week and I fear that as good as it promises to be, even I will tire of it before it's done.
Oh well. Sharing is good.

It's not Swanson's, but it'll do.

There's chicken and mushrooms and carrots and peas and celery and onions and garlic and plenty of gravy that will taste fine with that biscuit-like crust I made with buttermilk. 

So that's it for me here in Lloyd. I didn't do much today, but I did a little and I hope that tomorrow is as good. 

I am thinking of you all so tenderly. 

Love...Ms. Moon

Grief

When I was in labor with my first child, I could not believe that the world could go on outside my house as if nothing were happening. This was too much, too painful, too monumental for the world to just ignore and yet, I knew in my heart that it was not- this is what it took to bring a child into the world and if the world had stopped and everyone in it had stopped, it would still be the way it was for me to labor and then give birth.

Years and years later, I see reports of horrible tragedies that do not seemingly affect me or my life and I avoid, if I can, looking at the pictures, hearing of the terrible suffering. I don't exactly cut off the radio or avoid looking at the paper or internet, but I don't dwell. I think to myself, what good would it do? My empathy, my attention to the tragedy will not change what the sufferers are going through.
And then...something happens.
I was listening to NPR and heard Melissa Block, who is in China right now, talking about a couple trying to find their two-year old son and his grandparents in the rubble of the building where they had all lived.
She narrated the events of a long day as the rubble was finally removed enough for the parents to enter their building and they had such great, frantic hope that even after all this time, their baby boy and parents would still be alive. As she spoke, Ms. Block's voice broke over and over, and then when she translated what the mother was saying, she almost broke down.

"Wang," she cried, "Your mommy is coming!"

Hearing the numbers of the dead, the thousands and tens of thousands, mean nothing.
But hearing one mother, screaming to her undoubtedly dead son that his mommy is coming, it means everything.
With those words, I can't ignore the sorrow and pain going on so far away and although it will not help anyone, I cry.
On this beautiful day in May in North Florida where the sun is shining and the birds are calling and the oak trees tower over my peaceful home, I have to stop and cry.
We are all separate in our pain and in our tragedy and yet- how can we be?
This is something I can not understand. But after hearing this report, I can't help but see in my mind this woman, calling to her son, willing him to be alive, and then shattering into a million pieces when he is found in the arms of his grandfather who himself was in the arms of his wife. All of them dead.
And I know this same story is being repeated over and over and over right this very second and it has been, for days.

So much sorrow. I can do nothing.

But I can stop and pay attention. I am human. I can cry.