2020 = 366 days of wonder

As in, I wonder, can it get any worse? 

Today, day 260 of the year from hell.  Today, day 190 of this pseudo-quarantine, "wear a mask" pandemic.  And, to top it off, day 9 of the "stay indoors on account of the worst air on the planet" warnings.  

Some wildfires in our area are forcing us into further quarantine.  We must stay in our homes.  

I find that a blessing these days.  At least we have a home to go to.  Some have lost their homes.  And for some, it really has been the end of the world.  

We are the lucky ones.  We can learn from the smoke.  We can learn from the pandemic.  We can learn from our misfortune. And we can learn from our fortune.  

We are the lucky ones. 

DN

For Maria

For Maria

To my friend, Maria. Thanks for the gesture.

A pocketful of petals
They were given to me.
Petals in a pocket,
A simple pleasantry.

Alas, Pleasure becomes dismay.
Too soon the rose fades away.
Be still, my heart, find peace.
The spirit of the gift you'll keep.

Copyright 1999.  David Normand      From The Romantic Bower

The other day, on my birthday, while sipping my morning coffee, I was treated to a view of the ducks on the Columbia River having their breakfast.  It struck me that a pleasant breakfast for some birds may not be the same for other animals, like some fish and insects.  Some days might not be as pleasant for others. 

I told myself that life isn't always a bed of roses.

Into each life some rain must fall.  And this morning some rain fell in mine.  I learned of the passing of my friend, Maria. She was an artist, a sweet lady, a friend who, truthfully, I had not seen in a few years.  But I always felt strongly for her.  And those eyes, Maria had the most beautiful eyes. 

She was my muse.  She inspired me to write the first poem I ever sold. The one I titled for her.  For Maria, "Pleasure becomes dismay/Too soon the rose fades away." The dreaded cancer steals another young soul.  She was way too young.

Just a few weeks ago she crossed my mind again.  My daughter had rescued some feral cats just like Maria did when she lived near us in California.  I have been thinking of her lately, within the last few weeks. I remembered that heart.  She was such a kind person. 

I am glad to have known her.   I am glad she was in my life.  It is not the same world knowing she is gone.  I wish you peace, my friend. 

DN

Updated:  November 1, 2020
Several days after I wrote the above blogpost, I mentioned it to a friend on Facebook.  I also told her that I  was sitting at the dining room table when I was reading through it for my final draft purposes.  I smiled at the thoughts of Maria and our friendship when my Alexa device in the other room started playing a song.  This particular song is a kind of new favorite and is about muses.  Maria was my muse and, yes, I truly believe that we were having a conversation.  Maria, thank you.  

DN.  

Happy Mother’s Day, 2020 (as in the year, and hindsight is 2020).

Kind of pensive this morning, and it reminded me of how thoughtless I was to my own Mom.  Remembering events with my mom. I remembered when I moved out on my own when I was almost 20 years old I chalk it up to the inexperience and stupidity of youth, and to the first onset of adult independence and freedom.  I see it in my own life’s experiences, but please bear with me.  

My wife and I live in an area of steep, curvy mountain roads with long distances and open spaces between services.  Facebook offers us a local road conditions page where concerned citizens post the local knowledge of accidents, fallen trees, road hazards, or dead (or live) wildlife or livestock on the roads.  Yesterday, Saturday, was an uneventful quarantine day in our area until late afternoon.  Someone posted about a motorcycle accident, and the ambulances and police services being called.  A fellow facebooker commented that she was worried about her brother and dad who were late getting back from a ride. 

I worried too.  

What an awful way to hear about an accident that may involve your family.  And the not knowing…!  Later, she posted that all was well and that all was well as they both just walked in the door.  I felt relieved for her and her family.  Strangers, whom I have never met and do not know.  But my heart went out to her in this situation.  

But still, there was a serious accident and it involved strangers, too.  No personal link however far stretched.  But they are neighbors, fellow citizens who are hurting.  My thoughts and prayers went out to them as always.  It is a dangerous world out there.  

And all of this snapped me back to my own quarantine and to all of those suffering.  We see families on the news.  We don’t know them. We see the stories and we feel the emotions.  This links us all to their situations.  The pictures provide a visual reminder of the toll.  

3100 cases of illness in the state where I live.  102, or more deaths.  Each number represents a family hurting or worrying.  One hundred families hurting.  Thirty-one hundred worried families.  

These stories reminded me of my mom today.  Years ago, in my youth, my newfound independence and freedom, I neglected my mother’s feelings.  I forgot about her worries.  

I was living in the mountains 500 miles away.  I had an apartment and a job.  I was doing ok.   I called my brother from a payphone.  He said my mom was “pissed’ that I didn’t have a  phone.  I was independent and naïve.  Why did I need a phone?  I was free.  My brother said, “Mom wants you to get a phone.”  I did. 

There was girl I worked with.  Same situation as myself, young, naïve, and free.  She called home to say “Hi” to her mom.  Her sister said, “Mom died six months ago.” 

This lady in my county worried about her family.  All the current covid patients have families worried about them. My mother worried about me. She needed to know I was ok.  I got a phone.

I regret not calling my mom.  I didn’t at the time.  But I do now.  Call your Mom, if you can talk to her on a regular basis.  Believe me, there will be a time when you want to… and you can’t. 

Happy Heavenly Mother’s Day Mom.