Sunday, January 3, 2010


"The literary radicals tell us there must be a new kind of poetry. There will be, whenever there is a new poet." Willa Cather. "I think I would like to have wings, blue ones, ribbons of flame." Mary O.
Mae Sarton laments another "interrupted morning." She wanted to re-read her 200+ page manuscript... then the cat wanted to go out! She regards life and finds it "so much more complex at any given moment. How is one to gather it in?"
Yogananda offers his good advice for the New Year, "Resolve to give more time to God... control your appetites and emotions. Be a master!" Hickman write, "isolate wonderful moments from the stream of memory." Corita Kent has written, "Love the moment."
As I sit in winter light filtered through 2 sheets of glass I see the blue January sky beyond a tangle of dark trees and rising into the sky vapors of exhaust from the heating systems of other buildings. I think I would be tempted to go home if I had a very large woodpile waiting for me. But when I left there was wood for one week. When I return in April I must seek energy assistance and request that wood be delivered. I know I will not write because the complexities of life and the struggle to survive in a cold land will climb to the top of my list of priorities.
When I went to MSP terminal to pick up Annie and kids I had a few minutes to talk with Justice. One of the things he said was, "Grandma, we all want you to come home but I know how hard it is for you to live in such a hard way." I thanked him for his understanding but marveled inwardly that he'd considered my position and put it into a few good words.
On Christmas Day I suggested to Cedar that I might get an apartment in Deer River where life would be less challenging for me. She would not accept it. I explained that I'd visit often and she could visit me. The Redd Shedd would be my summer place. But she flung her arms around me and pressed her face against me. "No, Grandma," she moaned, "no." When we talked on New Year she asked me to come home. We've spoken of this so often that it has become a script. I say, "I miss you, too. But I can't live in that cold house." She says, "But you're coming home in the spring." "Yes," I promise, "I'll arrive with the robins."

No comments:

Post a Comment