Updated: Oct 4
Cookbooks rejuggled reveal new recipes
I felt a wee bit depressed today, and truth be told, for the last five days, thanks to a nasty virus dampening down cheer and hope in my heart. Some illnesses just feel sadder than others, and the timing of this one leaned toward grief: the 10th anniversary of my dad’s death, the third anniversary of a friend’s son’s death, and as of tomorrow, the anniversary of both Lou’s, and a year earlier, Maura’s deaths. I spent the morning moping around my computer, listening to music, trying to get things done with no desire for the doing of them.
The owls migrated to perch above the coats for a season or two
So I did what any sensible person would do: lay on the couch in the sunlight and stare at the sun through the window, going in and out of mild hallucinatory slips of sleep until I couldn’t lie around any more. What to do next? Experience has taught me the value of moving and cleaning something, anything, at such a moment, and I promised myself a lovely tuna fish sandwich after I actually did something.
One thing turned into another, and while the progression is
My red camera taking a photo of Forest’s long-long red camera
complex, I can say it involved moving piles of books, owls, small beads, and a bundle of teapots. What happened, though, shook loose my sadness, and also stunned out of hiding Forest’s camera, which I had only recently given up on finding after bouts of intense searching over the last three years. With the prodigal camera back, who knows what more would come?
I soon found out: an unexpected check from Natalie’s college for having overpaid her tuition in the final immense tuition check I mailed just weeks ago, plus a small owl I forgot I had, several cookbooks I wanted only to discover they were already mine, assorted small shiny stones, a $2 bill, and enough room for all the moved objects in their new places.
Now when I walk in the house, I see a shelf of owls, reminding me of how, just out of the corner of my eye, I may spy something in flight, maybe even, despite little viruses and old or new griefs, my own spirit.