Now

A Ramble by Linda-Marie

Almost all the cells in our bodies are replaced over our lifetime. With each breath, we’re renewing and refreshing, out with the old, in with the new. The pandemic’s first year prompted something similar with my psyche, a great sloughing off of unconsciously held beliefs: that life stretched endlessly and youthfully before me, that my mother’s presence would be constant, that a glass of wine would help me sleep better, that I could expect this or that outcome if I prepped hard enough. I’ve emerged sharper, still sensitive to the changes from this profound and exhausting journey. I recently told my husband Jon, “I feel beat up,” though that doesn’t mean all the lessons were hard ones. I also carry a greater awareness and urgency about my brief time on the planet. Life is a miracle. How do I honor that gift as a joyful, loving human, and not add to the struggle? How do I bring my beautiful spark to the greater fire?

Springtime has made her way into the mountains, and I’m entranced by the quickening. Birds race past in their mating dance of flight and surrender, bulbs burst out of the ground, and trees leaf after dropping their bright flowery mantles. I observe it all from my comfy perch on our front porch. Today I watched as a woman parked her car next to our little free library and walked, eager and curious, towards it. She brought to mind my mother, my companion in visits to libraries and used bookstores, who asked me to send her books at her nursing home, and whose “Serenity Prayer” bookmark moves from book to book as I read through my stacks. Her presence hovers gently, including in my closet, where I keep one of her cardigans, a light blue knit that’s rather worn, but bears her name and her final room number at St. Patrick’s Manor. As evening comes on, I listen to birdsong while neighbors walk past, a dog or two in tow,  a child pushed ahead in a stroller. I take stock of the biggest changes since the pandemic began:

My mom died.

I got a new job.

I drink caffeinated coffee (new job).

My hair is all-natural, lightly streaked with grey, and cut by my husband.

I gained, then lost, almost 10 pounds without conscious effort.

I’m a teetotaler.

I’m often tired behind my eyes.

I have more or less patience, depending on the circumstance.

I haven’t touched my dress clothes and shoes since mom’s funeral last March.

Nor boarded a plane.

Or entered a restaurant, clothing store, or movie theater.

I’m daily saddened and outraged by patriarchy and racism, especially in combination.

On the other hand, I’m not daily stressed by a dangerously narcissistic president.

With my inheritance, I had a front porch built onto our home and named it after my mom.

I’m working on a writing project that inspires me.

I formed a women’s support group.

I own at least ten face masks.

I’ve received my two Pfizer vaccines.

I feel fortunate and filled with loss. I’m thick with emotion held close.

My new mantra is the line from Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day”: Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life? More than ever before, I wrap my arms around this life and commit to it. I can’t avoid all the shitty things that will come my way, or the ones I’ll walk into, but I’ll work to keep my emotional center clear and open, not numbed, artificially distracted, or frozen in fear. What is the purpose of this time in our bodies, if not to live richly, be loving to ourselves and others? 

I’ve also committed to pampering this wild and precious body! The money I’ve saved becoming a teetotaler and  DIY-ing my hair has gone directly into face serums and recovery oils, body lotions, and bath salts. I eat a nourishing vegetarian diet with fresh fruit and veggies, drink lots of water, and put some amazing nut butter on my daily dose of dark chocolate. My body is grateful.

One of the great comforts this year, the surest balm for my soul, has been spending time with Jon watching, like so many millions of other folks, the Great British Baking Show. I pour a cup of tea and plate a cookie, while Jon makes a Manhattan and grabs his own snack. Then we settle on the couch, his feet on my lap, to watch a group of earnest, creative folks who embody support and goodwill during a competition do their best making all kinds of treats I’d love to sample. I’ve tensed up, laughed, and cried rooting for each season’s bakers. And when the show is over, and we go to bed, I turn out the light, the sound of waves coming from the app on my phone, and we hold hands until one of us falls asleep.