I Miss You

I'm doing what I can to not morph into a couch potato during the pandemic.  My addiction is food, and I could (and sometimes do) spend all day on my chair; the Denver Post, books and magazines strewn on the ottoman.  To counteract the bon-bon temptation, I have a routine that I adhere to on a daily basis.

Each day I write morning pages or do the crossword puzzles in the paper.  I am beyond grateful to Buddy who plops the Post on my porch each morning.  I know his name and address because every year around this time he slips a thank you note into the paper and in return I mail him a holiday card with a check enclosed.  I firmly believe everyone should be dependent on tips at least once in their working lives.  The perspective gained will increase your generosity and compassion to those who rely on our kindness.  Nothing bugs me more than being out to lunch - remember those days? - and my companion griping about the service when they've never balanced a cocktail tray or burnt their fingers on a smoking hot plate.  All with a smile and a yes ma'am. 

I thought I would miss the library more than I do.  The stacks of books I've hoarded over the past few years have been dusted off.  I'm becoming an armchair expert in mindfulness, pop psychology and Judaism.  There is a good chance I could go a couple of more years before running out of reading material.  For the past five years I did depend upon the public library to be my document printer.  For a mere ten cents per page I didn't have to make room for a machine, buy ink and unstick paper jams.  But COVID changed all that and HP came to the rescue with a unit that only cost a Ben Franklin, with cartridges being delivered as needed to my doorstep.  Just another reason to stay inside.

The gym...  what can I say about my 14-year love affair with the YMCA?  When I was in the throes of my divorce, I had a choice; drink copiously or start working out.  I chose the latter and proceeded to lose my ass and then I shed 50 pounds!  Instead of bar hopping on a Friday night, I found myself swimming laps in the chilly pool of the Colorado Springs Downtown Y.  When I started three laps seemed an eternity - but the reward of a leisurely steam amplified my efforts.  I miss my thrice weekly dips.  I've even written a poem about how I equate a natatorium to church:  (no need to be impressed - I write about the mundane and the miraculous all the time)

Neptune’s Nepenthe

 

Sunday morning

Church of Poseidon

Strive for that mile

Feels good to dive right in

 

God in the aqua

Surrounding my soul

Eases my body

Help me be whole

 

Underwater worship

Lane divider as pew

My kind of religion

Aquatic venue

Breathe, hold, release

Do it again

Head in the water

Feet in my fins

 

Neptune’s nepenthe

Three times per week

I can listen in water

I can hear my God speak

Another component of my daily routine is land exercise.  I enjoy yoga, dancing Nia, mat Pilates and walks around the neighborhood.  Luckily, I only live ten minutes from Little Dry Creek trail which hooks up to the Highline Canal, a 71-mile trail that begins at Waterton Canyon and terminates near Denver International Airport.  No need to get in my car and burn gas in order to burn calories.  Getting out in nature, albeit an urban oasis, is good for my soul.  I envy my friends who go into the foothills and hike in a Denver Mountain Park or JeffCo Open Space.  Either they are braver than moi when it comes to public bathrooms and port-o-potties or they do way more Kegels than I willing to commit to in these post-menopausal years.  I have a one-hour time limit to be out of the house these days.  The only limitation to outdoor adventures is my bladder.  

I suppose what I am saying is that adaptability may be the key to survival during the mismanaged mess the country (and world, to be fair) finds itself in.  For years I've told my offspring that flexible people rarely get bent out of shape.  Maybe that's an inside yoga joke, or maybe it is true.  I try to go with the flow most days - swimming against the current is too hard and I simply don't have the energy for confrontation anymore.

I could lament about all the activities that are off limits - museums, galleries, concerts, in-person Al-Anon meetings - or I can radically accept that this is life in the present moment.  The here and now.  One helpful, at home, by myself activity that I have consistently engaged with the last several months is meditation.  Each day I sit for fifteen minutes or so and am guided by a gentle, watery voice through these stormy days and tumultuous seas.  It is calming.  It has lowered my blood pressure.  It gives me something to do for one-quarter of an hour. A few years back I stumbled into Mayu Meditation Sanctuary and despite not living nearby I invested in a membership because it resonated with me.  This 'calm in the city' facility has since closed, another victim of the times.  The meditative footbaths were my favorite part and I suppose I can attempt to duplicate that at home.  But some things are best left as a warm memory, so for now I will pass on the reenactment.  I also purchased a 31-day meditation and writing prompt program that I listen to and then pen a poem or some sentences.  

The renewal notices still come in the mail.  Denver Botanic Gardens and The Denver Museum of Nature and History to name just two,  Last fall, before the pandemic, I had already decided to let some memberships lapse and concentrate my efforts and donations on literary efforts.  So, I steadfastly maintain my status with Poetry Society of Colorado, Poetry West, Lighthouse Writers Workshop and most recently Grub Street.   Now I look at these other pleas for continued support and vacillate between not knowing if I will ever enjoy their offerings again and the possible demise of important cultural institutions.  Should I, or shouldn't I?  I am sure many of us have these same thoughts.  In some ways my charitable giving has increased, especially to Jewish based local organizations.  This is an important area of my life that deserves focus and thoughtful consideration.

Many years ago, my then husband gave me a fridge magnet that read "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most".  It made its way into the trash as soon as his head was turned.  I took it as his passive-aggressive way to let me know he thought I was 'crazy'.  And maybe I was.  A working mom of three with an obviously dispassionate mate.  If I had that magnet now it might be displayed on the refrigerator alongside photos of grands, wry comics and random recipes.  But is it true?  During COVID is my mind what I really miss?  I've taken many positive steps to keep my sanity during these uncertain, stressful days.  I Zoom into Al-Anon two times per week.  I reach out to friends through phone calls and note cards.  I've already mentioned meditating.  I also video chat with a therapist every ten days or so.

Let me reframe that quote.  "Of all the things I've lost, (due to COVID) I miss people!".  Especially those of you who take the time to read my blogs and poetry.  Thank you for letting me pour my heart out - it means everything to me.  I still have my rose-colored glasses and I hold on to the hope that there are better days ahead.  So, until I can have lunch or a walk with you, or until I can hop on a plane and visit...  Until I can exhale and you can inhale and I can inhale and you can exhale - together, unmasked and safely - know this:  Thanks for being a part of my life.  L'Chaim!

(Now I just need to get off the couch and stay away from bon-bons!)

Time to Write,

Jane

 

 

Chipping Away

Even though National Potato Chip Day was back in March - I received a gag gift of Lays Classic chips earlier this week.  The bag resembled a Mylar balloon, having travelled from sea level to the Mile High City.*  This delivery affirmed my steadfast belief of how important the US Postal Service truly is.  Receiving my ballot in a timely manner was civics in action.  90-day medication deliveries are life giving, cheaper and safer than an in person pharmacy visit.  But potato chips?  Excuse me for mixing metaphors, but they take the cake.

I subscribe to "Informed Delivery", a service of the USPS.  Almost every day I am pinged that a package or handbill is in the mail hut of the complex where I live.  Knowing what is in store when I open the little mail receptacle adds drama and excitement to my otherwise mundane life in the time of Covid.  It's my own personal OOH-OOH moment!  I can be a kid in the minutes between notification and gathering.  I can get my tools for opening the package at the ready.  Knife, letter opener, an orange band-aid for the inevitable paper cut incurred by overzealousness.

But the USPS failed in their mission of informed delivery and neglected to get my hopes up that a surprise awaited.  When I opened the little door recently there was a key to enable me to access the larger boxes available for packages.  This convenience has never stopped the mail carrier from pushing and shoving bundles into the rectangular slot: bending CD cases (sorry Andrea), and tearing fliers and other important correspondence. Once he packed my mail and a package in so tightly, I had to leave a note and ask for him to put it in the bigger box, less than an arm's length away.  But I am not here to bash the postal service - our current administration does enough of that without help from me.  I am grateful that my mail shows up, mostly unscathed and somewhat on-time.

I took the key and a deep breath and opened door #118.  What would I find?  Well, we already know it was a bag of chips.  But not just any chips.  Lays Classic - a generous 8oz bag to boot.  Not one of those small school lunch sized bags, but a convenience store end-rack special.  I used to buy those individual, portion-control chip bags ostensibly for my children's brown-bags.  I would tell myself that I could eat just a little bitty amount, maybe 15 chips or so.  But the truth is the effort to open another bag and then another wasn't too strenuous and the reward of salty goodness was always worth it.  After all you can't spell chips without HIPS!

The box had a coconut water logo and I thought "Why would my daughter order coconut water"?  Sorry, Andrea.  I do know better... (and sorry for the ellipses)  It was light as a feather, so the muscular strength I mustered to slide it out of the mailbox was not needed.  I balanced the empty recycled bag, a stack of late arriving election fliers and the mystery box for the 200 steps or so back home.  Not Hanukkah, not my birthday, not national potato chip day.  Why would my cousin's husband send me a bag O'Chips?

The note read:  Sorry.  I think these are all good.  Enjoy. Marvin.  Now why would Marvin send me chips, you might ask.  I admit it took a bit of head scratching to recall that I had recently told Linda a story about me, Marvin and America's favorite snack.  I was six and let's just say Marvin was a grown-up.  No need to out his age here.  We were at this idyllic swim 'club' that my parents joined each year for about $100.00.  A five-acre sand bottom pool, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic areas, even mini-golf!  This was the sixties and I would later come to learn that my mother was not drinking coffee from her bottomless thermos in the 90 degree/90 percent humidity weather of the Hudson Valley.

I was a skinny, high-diving mermaid.  These leisurely days of summer were the highlight of my suburban childhood.  This day found us under the giant willow that shed thousands of leaves into the water every day.  There were lounge chairs to catch the breeze, enjoy the shade.  I was having lunch - and though I don't remember all the details of the day -   I am confident that I was hungry because swimming still has that effect on me.  Five+ decades later, that hasn't changed.  Marvin kept dipping into my bag of chips and would proclaim after each one "That one is no good."  Finally, the final chip and Marvin declared "Now that was a good chip".  Or something like that.  It was a long time ago, but I know the gist of my memory is accurate.  Just like my dad taking a giant forkful of my cheesecake at Leonetti's - these memories of purloined potato chips and pastries do not elude me.  Unlike the diner caper, I did not burst out in tears over a chip or two.  Nonetheless the trauma is real or I wouldn't be dedicating an entire blog post to potato chips!

The memory of that day, those times of carefree childhood, telling Linda the tale...  It all came back to me.  I laughed out loud and that was medicine for my soul.  I glanced at the postage Marvin had shelled out and realized these chips would be the most expensive snack of my life.  Ha! - worth it I thought.  I quickly penned Marvin a thank you email, told him an old corny potato chip joke in the process.   And then it occurred to me.  I should have told Linda the story in exact detail editing just one small fact.  Nothing too major.  What writers might call embellishment or a character change to move the story (or reward) forward. I should have made the star of the saga Mallomars.

*Mylar Potato Chips

Forty is a Good Number!

Just three days until the election.  This evokes many feelings within me:  anxiety, hope, disgust, relief.  And those emotions are stirred up without the brutal whisk of Facebook.  2020 has been a tough year, no need to tell you that.  For me it has been all about keeping my serenity and my sanity in good working order.  Thus, I decided the last weekend of September would be my last foray into Facebook - I would refrain at least through November third.  

Here is my true story of surviving and perhaps even thriving without the scourge of social media.  Early in the pandemic I began taking a weekly "Spiritual Fitness" class via Zoom with a Torah Educator.  As a kid I did not receive much (any?) formal religious training and the casual, conversational format of this weekly talk appealed to me.  Yes, I resonated because the instructor is a woman.  Yes, it was a convenient time and place - HOME!- to take the class.  But it was more than that.  I thought why not now?  This is a good time to strengthen my emunah (faith) in a more specific way, not the generalized "I'm spiritual, not religious "mantra of late.

I knew the Jewish calendar was lunar, and the Gregorian calendar revolves around the sun.  I understood that the dates of  holidays were always the same in the Jewish calendar, but beyond that my knowledge of the months of Judaism was scant.  In mid-August Chaya began mentioning the month of Elul.  How it is a full moon cycle of reflection and repentance leading up to Rosh Hashanah and the Days of Awe.  As a 12-stepper in Al-Anon the idea of taking a month to ponder my being, my actions, my thoughts...  well, it really appealed to me.  I downloaded an Elul workbook that extended to Yom Kippur and faithfully did the daily reading and writing.  There were questions, deep thoughtful questions to reply to.  All done in my jammies, at night, by myself, in brutal honesty.  This was a forty-day endeavor as the workbook extended through the Days of Awe to sundown on the night of Yom Kippur commencing.

I was still on Facebook during most of this time.  Being pawky, highly opiniated and vociferous.  We were gearing up to an historic, important election and I wanted my voice heard!  In a punny, funny, witty way of a writer.  Clever me.  But then I started to not feel good about my behavior.  My overzealous engagement with friends and family.  Having harsh judgements about the intelligence levels of people who had different opinions than mine or supported the contrary opponent.  Doing this meaningful reflective work and Facebook sniping seemed to be in opposition of one another.  

I decided to give up Facebook on September 27th before sundown and the beginning of Yom Kippur.  I had a prior thirty-day hiatus a few years back and found the self-imposed blackout difficult.  I occasionally snuck a peek to see a post or check in on someone.  This time I vowed to be clean and rigorously honest with myself.  I uninstalled the app on my phone to limit temptation.  I had a last proclamatory post so folks would know I hadn't just fallen off the face of the earth.  After all, anything is possible in 2020.  

What was also floating around my brain was the number 40.  There are forty days in the penitential period from Rosh Chodesh Elul and Yom Kippur.  Moses told the Jews they were not worthy to inherit the land and would wander the desert for forty years.  The heavens broke open and rained on Noah's ark for forty days.  Jesus fasted for forty days and forty nights before his temptation.  In the middle ages ships had to harbor for forty days before passengers could disembark due to the bubonic plague.  Sound familiar?  Even Lent is forty days long, not counting Sundays.  This number 40 carries significance!  Ergo I decided my Facebook free period would honor the gravitas of forty.  I quickly looked at my (Gregorian) calendar and calculated my social media sabbatical would end on November 5th.  

Logically this date of reemergence made sense.  The election would be over and that was my initial reason for the respite - add two day and maybe some of the rancor and nastiness would have subsided.  Now I have doubts that a quick turnaround to normalcy is feasible.  Each day I am growing more comfortable with the possibility that Facebook is firmly in my rear-view mirror.  I haven't peeked at all this time.  Not even to go onto my beloved groups - Embracing our Silver Hair, a Cop Mom forum, one that is all about living with Rheumatoid Arthritis and a couple more.  One of my daughters told me that I can just go onto my groups and not the general scroll till I fall down a hole feed.  But I thought I am all in this time.

Here is what I have gained from my absence.  I don't miss Facebook.  I didn't engage in inane, circular conversations with virtual strangers.  I didn't read any death wishes or slimy slogans.  I did miss photos of kids and food and vacations - well not vacations - we don't do that anymore.  But you get the gist.  I wish there were two Facebooks - one for the political/social/societal hostilities and one for butterflies and flowers.  I suppose Instagram is more geared for the latter and I might try to be more diligent about checking in and posting there.  Maybe I will even figure out how to post this blog on that friendlier forum.  But not this instant.

Right now, I reflect on my choice to abstain.  I liken it the practice to exercising my willpower muscle.  Seeing if I have the courage to change a habit.  Can I give up something I love for forty days, like a Lenten practice?  E-Lent-ion is what I jokingly called my experiment.  I survived!  I found more time to read, write, crochet, and cook.  I spent less time staring at a screen.  My blood pressure remained slow and steady.  I didn't feel riled up or raring to go with anyone about anything.

As for returning to Facebook, only time will tell.  In the meantime, I will engage with my Spiritual Fitness and remember to place principles above personalities.  

Time to Write,

Jane

The Last Word

The last word is exhausting.  I spend a bit more time on Facebook these days, and I find myself negatively engaging, trying to be witty, formulating the quirkiest quip.  In other words, getting the last word.  Because of this I am setting some rules for myself in order to limit my screen time.

Rule # 1 - No phone in my room.  I waver on this self imposed prima regula.  What if there is an emergency and I need to call 9-11? What if one of my kids need me?  Those possibilities are slightly outweighed by my need to be in bed - without a phone.  Two nights ago, however, I was awoken by a man and woman having a loud disagreement outside, under my bedroom window.  In my half-awake-ness,  I hobbled to the dining room table to retrieve the banished phone from its charger.  Perhaps this was a good thing.  Those few moments of being upright, gaining a sense of bearing, allowed me a chance to breathe deeply.  Think clearly.  No need to call 9-11 on a couple's fight.  Chances are most of us have been a publicly dueling duo a time or two in our relationships.  Instead I cemented my brief, initial (WTF) peek through the blinds to memory.  I heard the name 'Ashley' several times and noted that as well.  I looked at the time in case it ever became important.  A bit more cognizant now, I decided to just be a silent, unknown witness.  Even though I really wanted to open my front door and tell them to move along, decent people are asleep at this hour, I resisted that inclination.  I quietly gave it 10 minutes to see if the situation escalated and needed (heaven forbid) police intervention.  I don't know the number of any counselors who would race to scene past midnight.  Thankfully I was able to resume slumber and no somnambulist statement to the sheriff was needed.  Mmm, maybe I do need my phone by my side.  But not tonight.

Rule # 2 - No automatic phone reaching in the morning. Not being an automaton. Something like that.  For an addict of Words with Friends and 7 Little Words this proves to be harder than it sounds.  Setting a morning ritual assists me in this no phone first mantra.  It's a bit old-fashioned, but bear with me.  I look at a clock to see what time it is.  And - wait for it -I go outside to check on the weather,  As a writer I hear over and over morning pages.  Morning Pages.  Stream of consciousness.  Awaken your brain first thing in the morning.  Three pages at a minimum.  Truth is, that is exactly what I am doing right now.  As always, the practice of heeding this advice serves to remind me what a great discipline it is.  But I'm weak.  I'm human.  I'm curious to know how 'liked' I am.  All the more reason for me to employ alternative activities to begin my day.  If not morning pages then the crossword puzzle in the Denver Post.  They graciously print two every day - can life get any better than that?  What I am actually doing is replacing a bad habit with a better one.  There are a lot of hours between six am and ten pm.  The reality is I only carve out two hours enforcing rules # 1 and 2.  This leaves a huge swath of time - say 8 am to 9 pm (that is 13 hours!) to un-occupy my screen time.  Let's explore another wrinkle of this system.  COVID.  I spend more time at home than ever before.  I need to recall time-tested ways of how to spend days.  Reading & writing of course.  TV watching?  OK - but not too much.  Certainly not first thing in the morning, and not as background noise all day.  Cooking?  Sure, I like chopping and slicing and dicing.  I'm a regular Ron Popeil in the kitchen.  But what else?  Thank Goodness sleep gives me something to do for 1/3 of the day.

Rule # 3 - The Pomodoro Technique.  Better known as how to keep Jane focused and away from her phone.  Last year in my memoir class (Live!  In a Library! With Lots of People! We Were Daring!) Ray, one of the duo who prodded us and prompted us weekly, set out a timer and introduced the concept of the Pomodoro Technique.  Simple enough.  Set a timer ( I say egg, he says tomato) for a mere 25 minutes.  Write and only write for that chunk of time.  Ding!  You're done!  Stretch, loo, do it again.  Did you know that I am a resistor?  I'm talking to myself here, but feel free to chime in.  I resist structure, authority, chocolate cake.  Scratch that last one.  I don't need a tomato to tell me to write!  I'm a writer.  Ideas come to me.  My pen loves my paper- why put limits on their love affair?  I filed the Pomodoro Technique in the back of my cranial Rolodex and never tried it.  Not once.  Don't tell me what to do...  Sound familiar?  And, yes - I wear a mask.


Two years ago I rented a casita in Santa Fe, NM.  The sole purpose was to write.  And I did, but I was also distracted.  I could walk to The Plaza, to the Georgia O'Keeffe Museum, to a cafe that had green chile scones.  A short drive took me to Canyon Road, to the Recreation Center at Ft. Marcy, to the Indian Market.  One morning after picking out my produce, I wandered into the indoor market and found a stall called Deb's Bargain Den.  I'm a gal who cannot resist a bargain.  Instead of being on the sunny patio of the casita (writing...) I'm digging through dusty books.  I purchase one for a buck called the Productivity Planner,  It made perfect sense to me that while I was procrastinating - and doing it well, I might add - my Higher Power found this book and put it in my hand (the hand that really should have been holding a pen).  In my typical way, I only glanced at it when I returned to the casita.  Oh yeah, it is like a day-timer, but kind of weird.  And in time it went from handsomely sitting on my bookshelf (pick me - pick me) to a bucket in the bottom of a closet.  Snugly nestled with all the other must-read, gotta-have bargain books from (mostly) library book sales.

Quarantine is a perfect time to clean out closets, so it was no surprise to find this thin volume in my hand last week.  It's a nice book with a good feel to the touch.  It has three components I like in the physical construction of a book; gold lettering on the cover, an elastic to keep it shut, and an attached ribbon to mark my place.  This time I found myself actually opening the book and reading the first thirty or so pages of instructions of how to effectively use this book to boost productivity.  I consider it a win that I only had to hear about tomatoes and timers twice to give this technique a chance.  I haven't actually WRITTEN anything in the book which is highly recommended, and most likely the entire point of the book, but I am trying.  C'mon.  Baby steps is all this PRO-crastinator can do right now.

I am learning.  I've had several aha moments.  25 minutes is a manageable amount of time.  My brain is beginning to let go of really wanting to hear the bell.  Time's Up!  Thank you Dr. Pavlov.  Today, or maybe tomorrow, or the next day, I will re-read the instructions and begin to utilize the book as intended.

Somehow, this brings me back to my phone and more specifically Facebook.  My time vampire.  It's all connected.  The Pomodoro Technique is giving me permission to put my phone on silent.  Remove it from my reach.  And thus, I work.  I am more focused.  It feels good to hear the timer and see what I've accomplished.  Not just writing either.  I use the technique to measure housework - twenty-five solid minutes and the place sparkles.  Chop veggies, prep and tidy the kitchen?  Done.  I can even time crocheting while I mindlessly watch evening TV and still garner a sense of worth.

Facebook sucks me in to a negative space.  Cyber arguments, exerting my will, wanting others to see things my way.  I need to let go of all that for my serenity, sanity and dignity.  The Pomodoro Technique is showing me that the only place I need to have the last word is right here.  On the page.

111 Days.

Apologies to my blog.  I've ignored you most of 2020.  That is not to say I have not been writing.  I was and I am!  In April I participated in a poem-a-day challenge to celebrate National Poetry Month.  Indeed, I wrote every day and did post some of the (hopefully) better ones to my FB page.  May brought me to a daily meditation/writing prompt program that I purchased on-line.  I did not diligently write each day, but the program is mine (and the clouds) to keep, so I can tune in and write whenever I like.  Also in the beginning of Q, one of my favorite yoga teachers invited me to a 21 day meditation challenge which included non-creative writes.  So, all in all, I can reflect and say YES!  I have indeed been writing.

Now we are at the end of June.  This month was LitFest, presented by Lighthouse Writers Workshop.  This year the festival was delivered via Zoom.  Initially I was hesitant to plunk my money down to stay at home; shouldn't they be offering a whopping special since I won't be using their electricity and toilet paper. (no longer a hot commodity, but still a necessity!)  Something I knew, but confirmed in Q is that whatever I resist, I should embrace.  I have a tablet and always thought that I was a hard book in hand kind of reader.  But with libraries closed and my personal collection being almost exclusively non-fiction, I took the leap, downloaded Hoopla and am giving e-reading a try.

A while back Nia, my preferred exercise and dance practice, launched NiaTV.  Here again, I was of the ilk that I don't need to watch a video in order to dance.  I go to the Y.  I love my teachers and fellow dancers so much I've written poetry and prose about them.  Now, unable to go to the Y, and with Nia HQ offering a free trial, I took the leap (arabesque?) and signed up.  My morning routine consists of a warm-up by moving furniture around to create a space in my living room to jazz-square, cross-front and shimmy.  Plus I enjoy a few unexpected bonuses, one being I can dance on demand and the other is dancing on carpet is sooo much easier on my knees.  Who knew?

For me, a routine is a component of my sanity.  Thus, each day looks pretty much the same.  Coffee and a morning write, often on my front porch, no matter the weather.  Exercise to the TV - yes TV - because I figured out how to duplicate my laptop screen onto the TV.  No squinting!  And since Nia includes Floorplay, and yoga is up and down (kind of like temple/church) I can put my laptop on the floor and never strain my neck to see what I am supposed to be doing. 

Before I know it, two meals under my stretchy yoga pant waistband, it is afternoon.  More reading, maybe some mindless TV, or an Al-Anon meeting, a phone chat or two, more writing....  you get the picture.  Somehow the day passes, nighttime falls, and then I get to wake up and do it all, or nothing,  again.

Occasionally I sneak in a trip up the highway to see the kids and grands.  But with everyone going back to work, this is going to become less frequent and more heartbreaking.  I'm in a double risk category and take the cautions to Q seriously.  As my mom would have said "this too shall pass".  Yes it will.  When?

So blog...  I am back.  I will endeavor to fill some pages, if for no other reason then to document these difficult times.  And to process the range of emotions I roller-coaster on a daily basis.

Time to Write,

Jane

Almost One

If you popped over here from Facebook - thank you!  I couldn't format on that platform and this short piece has a message  - a hint if you will - to the subject matter of the poem. 

Almost One

...but still I have this
Dilemma.  Where is the box
Big enough to hold my grief

How do I seek
Nepenthe.  Magic potion
Elixir.  Cocktail of
Altered consciousness

Where is relief
Easing of heartache
Soothing of pain
Smoothness of emotion

Schoolchildren should never be
Concerned with two things
Being hungry and being shot
Moms raise babies.  Not targets

…but still I have this quandary
Where is the box to
Banish bereavement
Expel maternal anxiety

Bang-Bang. Pow-Pow

Where have I been?  It has been almost two months since I returned from Florida and blogged about my magical travel experience.  Fast forward to mid-April.  I'm home.  I've been in self-isolation (is that redundant?) since the afternoon of March 10th.  I left the YMCA and then my Al-Anon meeting that day and had the same sense of not wanting to go back out into the world.  And while I miss my routines, I am happily employing a Can-Do attitude.  Certainly my forebears endured more hardships in their lifetimes. Pogroms and The Holocaust to name just two.

I have the luxury of a warm home.  Television and internet access.  Food and other sundries can be delivered to my doorstep.  The newspaper still thuds on my balcony every morning.  Zoom enables me to see, but not touch, my kids and grands.  Overall, I cannot complain.  I am breathing, staying fit, reading & writing.  Which brings me to this...

I am not a fiction writer.  I've never dabbled in dialogue, set a scene, developed a plot.  I am mostly a poet.  I do write essay-esque here.  I've written vignettes of memoir - storytelling really - of my childhood and perceptions of growing up all things suburban.  But fiction?  Nah.  In fact I read mostly non-fiction.  I tend to grab books on the craft of writing, poetry collections and memoirs.  During this endless Sabbath I have dipped into fiction.  Mainly because I have them here on my bookshelf.  I discovered that reading fiction is much less heady than digesting non-fiction.  I am whipping through these stories.

Denverite (on-line news source) had a Covid-19 Flash Fiction contest.  Complete with publication and prize money!  I thought - Why Not?  Though I have never written fiction before, I'd try my hand at something new.  After all what else was I doing?  Flash Fiction is typically between 500 and 1500 words.  I submitted the following piece that came in at 786 words.  With little hope of winning, I might add.  When the winning entries were published on three consecutive days last week I didn't see my name or piece.  No surprise there.  Reading them made it clear what mine was lacking.  Did I mention dialogue? Scene?  Plot?  Yep.  All missing.  In retrospect I realize my 'fiction' piece was more like my other writing.  What was in my head making it's way onto paper.  C'est la vie.
Will I attempt fiction at a future date?  Only time will tell, so stay tuned.  In the meanwhile enjoy my non-winning foray into fiction.

Time to Write,

Jane

Just One

by Jane Hillson Aiello    March 2020

What if this is it?  The last time I’ll ever brush my teeth with Trader Joe’s Fennel toothpaste?  I love this stuff.  I suppose I can resort to mint when it’s gone.  What about the last grape I get to savor?  Or witnessing my last snowfall?  I sometimes see those vintage yellow and black Fallout signs on Colfax, near the Capitol Building, announcing an underground shelter.  Why am I thinking about Fallout Boy and how similar the Fallout symbol looks like the little disc I used to press into the large, center hole of my 45’s of The Partridge Family or The Cowsills.  Then I could play them on mom’s hi-fi console that was a gift from my uncle and came all the way from Germany in a big wooden crate.  And my little friends and I would play-out West Side Story and dance to Trini Lopez and why am I thinking about being a kid in the sixties.  How we would duck under our desks and how come I was never the important kid designated to pull down the black-out shades.  Or the seventies where my biggest worry was how mad my mom was going to be when I told her my earth shoes melted on a heating grate at a party I wasn’t allowed to go to.  But I did.


Stay focused.  Stay present.  Those years of Beatle mantras and pop-psych should be paying me a dividend.  Helping my mental health.  Breathe.  Slowly, not suddenly.  Calm down – there will still be bananas.  Maybe not.  Isn’t the Cavendish variety popular today because the bananas of my youth were wiped out by a virus?  A virus?  No, it was a fungus.  I’m sure of it. A fungus.  Not a virus.  People get viruses.  Plants get funguses.  It started in Asia and morphed to Africa; I think.  I’m not sure.  I do know that I’m feeling like a banana.  Thick-skinned and sturdy on the outside.  Nothing but mushy flesh and fear on the inside.  And I’m fatigued.  Tired of being cooped up.  Aren’t chickens in coops?  What if there are no eggs?  Why am I thinking about bananas and chickens and eggs?  I eat bananas and eggs.  I don’t eat chicken.  I am pondering all things yellow.  Maybe because I am a coward.  Fearful of the times.  Afraid of both fungi and viruses. 


I am holed up at home. Rabbits hole up in a warren.  Outlaws of the wild west holed up in caves, deep in the mountains. Them thar hills.  This is Denver.  This is not the days of Pioneers.  Have you seen the pioneer license plate?  It has a wagon.  Maybe it’s a Conestoga.  Alcoholics are on the wagon. As a kid I had a Radio Flyer.  I never had a rabbit as a pet.  I had a friend named Warren.  Why am I thinking about wagons and rabbits and childhood friends?  We used to play Cowboys and Indians.  Very inappropriate, appropriating, politically incorrect.  What else?  My mother never let me have a toy gun.  I used my finger.  Bang-bang.  Pow-pow.


Where is my weapon?  Do I have enough ammo?  This is not the old west.  We have hipsters, not cowboys.  When I first moved here, I would see Cowboys on sixteenth street.  They wore Wrangler jeans and almost white Cattleman hats by Stetson.  Only cowboys wore Wranglers.  Greenhorns, like me, wore Levi’s.  Button fly, boot leg.  We knew better.  We were happening! I never thought I’d own a gun.  I was a liberal flatlander.  Millennials know what is happening.  They seek information, but is it always accurate?  True?
  

What is truth?  My truth is I enjoy my oddly flavored toothpaste and firm, red grapes.  I enjoy exploring Colfax for oddities and Broadway for antiques.  I enjoy bananas, and eggs, but not chicken.   I enjoy snowflakes and music – but probably not Fallout Boy.  The truth is I’ve only shot my gun indoors, supervised at a range in Castle Rock.  The truth is I am not a very good shot.  The truth is I had Vaseline smeared on the right lens of my glasses when I learned to shoot.  The truth is I am right-handed but left eye dominant.  The truth is I didn’t know I’d ever have to learn these types of things.


The truth is I don’t know how this plays out.  The God honest truth is that I don’t believe I am all that resilient.  The truth is I don’t know how long I can maintain this false Can-Do attitude.  The truth is I don’t need to tally my bullets.  Because the truth is, at the end of the day, I will only need one.