What is Clear to Me, by Sue Perlgut

What is clear to me is that each day is a gift. That every moment is a choice. That some choices work and some don’t. That memory may or may not be useful. That I’m glad I forget, yet delighted when an old memory surfaces with sounds, colors, and tastes.

What is clear to me is that I haven’t mastered joy or maybe even recognize it. That loss is inevitable. That good health is to be treasured. That I’m in charge and yet, I need to let go.

What is clear to me is that breathing, deeply, can change a moment, a thought. 

What is clear to me is that I am still afraid and run from my fears and at times run right into them.

What is clear to me is that as I age what I believe has softened, giving me a new understanding and love and at the same time I have become more fierce.

My Favorite Things, by Sue Norvell

steamy windows in a bakery when it's cold outside

the smell of fresh baked bread

watching woodpeckers on our suet feeder

waking, and realizing there is no pain

realizing I'm stronger today than yesterday

evergreens with snow caps

our two year old neighbor who has been taught to cough or sneeze into his elbow

blood donors — "Thank you!" to three people who shared with me

the feeling of being snug in my house as a storm approaches 

jewel-toned colors

maps — any, all, old, new, but especially old Esso maps of the U. S. from so many car trips as a child

new shoes, even new slippers or new socks, but especially shoes

chocolate with mint, chocolate with almost anything, chocolate by itself

street cars

a good mystery, especially finding a new-to-me author

sugar maples in autumn and new growth on my lilies showing through the mud in spring

our oddly feathered junco with the "white earmuffs" — he's been around for more than a month now

jigsaw puzzles done with family at holidays; the puzzle is fun, the peace it helps bring is even better

ingenuity and people who can problem-solve creatively

lentil soup

turkey stuffing and gravy

the aroma of spices, particularly cloves

the fact that parsley is very resistant to frost and pokes up, bright green, with snow all around it

paisleys — nearly all of them

yummy textured fabric: firmly soft wool melton, elegantly sleek silk-satin, crisp white lace, navy soutache braid, patable polypro, and comfy corduroy

rag rugs, especially ones made of old clothes — oh, there's that skirt I loved in high school

aprons with BIG pockets

fires in fireplaces

being warm in winter, being cool in summer

my silly fuschia-pink cyclamen from the grocery store now blooming in its 3rd year

my orchid, which seems to have forgiven my inadvertent neglect

old buttons — shoe buttons, metal buttons, and the funny bone or plastic ones my grandfather had on his boxer undershorts; for some reason the holes for the thread are huge compared to the diameter of the button, and I don't know why

challah

the clatter of the mailbox when the post carrier delivers

the sound ice skates make as they carve across a pond

the sound of wind in our huge evergreen trees

the hum of the phone wire as it is strummed by a tree branch; it's connected to the bedroom wall and can sound like a low, drawn out note on a cello

the sound of the car's engine turning over and "catching" when our battery is a bit low, and the temperature's even lower — whew

the cat's purring in my ear, but not at 4 a.m. please

being back at writing circle

being able to drive again — cautiously, for short trips

 
talking with my daughter on Sunday mornings

naps: all good

hardwood floors — so much subtle variety

well-made furniture, especially the chairs I can recover repeatedly

the Sunday "funnies" in the New York Herald Tribune (a happy memory)

150 watt bulbs for reading

a clock that ticks, a clock that chimes

old photographs and family to help sort them

Note: This list was inspired by the book "My Favorite Things," written and illustrated by Maira Kalman

2 Poems, by Melissa Hamilton

I live in a box of paint 

I live in a box of paint

sky oozes pastels

my clothes are spattered

I pluck fruit from a still life 

then walk

into landscapes of my making

Songs are like tattoos

Songs are like tattoos

good ones leave their mark —

harmonies trace 

record needle to skin

Small pokes from Janis Ian 

etching her voice in ink

I push up my sleeve 

find myself singing

NOTE: "I live in a box of paints" is a phrase from the song "A Case of You," by Joni Mitchell; "Songs are like tattoos," is a phrase from the song "Blue," by Joni Mitchell. These words are used with reverence and gratitude.

What if I Didn't Worry? by Sue Perlgut

What if I didn't worry?

Would I still be Jewish?

Would the frown lines on my forehead disappear?

Would the sun always be out?

Would I stop growing older, no longer concerned with

brittle bones

loss of mobility

fading sight

hearing loss

the next Apple operating system?

What if I didn't worry?

Would I have less 

sleepless nights, 

grinding teeth, 

tense shoulders, 

clenching stomach?

Would I travel more?

Go to the wedding in Chicago in December?

Have a respite from the winter, in warmer climes?

Get on that plane?

Smile  —

Laugh —

Dance —

Sing —

Yellow, by Stacey Murphy

Yellow, you are all at once

The sunlight on my neck

The joy in my steps on a morning run,

The trees in the distance

The irises promised to me in the spring

My will in each inhaled prayer,

Each exhaled laugh

Yellow, you are

The lioness who kisses my forehead

And watches from behind my eyes at the same time.

The mediation pillow

That absorbs shakiness from my thoughts,

And the warmth in the ground,

Solid under my words

Even as they stammer and falter

On unsteady feet

Yellow, you are

An endless horizon

And on the days I can’t see your possibility,

You are lemon in tea

And a snug blanket

In a room painted in cuddle

So I can see the brighter in tomorrow.

Note: “Cuddle” is the name of the yellow paint I chose for my home office walls

Birthday Wish, by Yvonne Fisher

What do I want for my birthday?

I want to see shooting stars in the dark sky in the night.

I want to see elephants walking around freely, happy in their habitat, in their groove, in their families.

I want a trip to Bali or some such place. It could be anywhere, really: the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Covent Garden in London, Golden Gate Park in San Francisco.

I want a bright sunny day, for once in my life, on my birthday, October 28. When the world is plunging into darkness, death, winter, short days, hibernation, transformation,

When all the golden leaves are falling fast to the ground,

When the chill in the air is a shock to the system,

Just once, I would like a bright, sunshiny day. And I think I'll get it.

I would like to not listen to the news on my birthday.

No news is good news.

Instead I would like to go for a long walk in the beauty that surrounds us.

I would like to feel a state of grace, a birthday peacefulness, 

To be in touch with my angels guiding me along,

To see them flying around, tapping me on the shoulder, kissing my cheek.

I would like to eat, drink and be merry and for my tummy to feel good and calm.

I would like to exercise my body, to dance wildly, Salsa and Hip Hop and Zumba at the advanced age of 67,

To feel young and cool, still,

Yet to have the wisdom that age can sometimes bring.

To me, the wisdom of age is completely about the visceral understanding that time is so limited,

That death is closer than it was. I can reach out and touch it.

And, because of that, I can experience the preciousness, the beauty, 

The glory, the gratitude for each day,

For this day,

This golden day,

This dark and windy day.

I want new socks for my birthday and I think I might get them.

I've had hints.

I want my friends, my loved ones, to feel better, lighter, happier, dreamier. 

Oh, please; oh, please. This is my prayer.

I want Marilynne Robinson's new book, "Lila" and I think I will get it, one way or another.

I want Roz Chast's graphic memoir about caretaking her parents, called

"Can We Talk About Something More Pleasant?"

I think I will get that one too.

I want to flow through the day like a gazelle. 

I want to feel like I have wings and I can fly.

I want to dance the Can Can to French music.

I want the drive to Danby to be filled with yellow leaves as it has been for weeks now.

A golden tunnel of leaves on Comfort Road.

Just a few more days.  Oh, please. Oh, please.

Am I asking too much?

Am I setting myself up?

Am I often disappointed?

Is it ever enough?

Is it always enough?

Am I over thinking things?

How do we measure a life, a day, a dream, the world?

As we plunge into the darkness of winter, how is it possible that everything is so exquisitely beautiful in its dying state?

The world is exquisitely golden, breathtaking, heartbreaking all at once.

Is this what life is?

The wisdom of the ages?

Young and cool forever?

Growing old and getting sick?

Closer to death and loving every minute?

Is this what it is?

Am I asking too much?

Do I have too many questions?

Am I living in the golden glory of the world?

Aunt Helen in the Kitchen, by Martha Blue Waters

My Aunt Helen was about a hundred years old when I first met her. Well, probably not quite that old, but she looked it to me. I was around six and had no realistic concept of age yet, but we both enjoyed each other from the first minute we looked eye to eye and recognized a certain twinkle there.

I got the biggest kick out of the way her flabby wrinkles had a rhythm all their own, swaying back and forth as she made her way around the kitchen. That’s where she always was, too. Didn’t really look like she was comfortable anywhere else. On the couch in the living room while the family watched something on this brand new thing called “television,” she sat frozen and still, bored out of her mind. But the second she entered the kitchen she changed into a new person. Full of energy, happy, very fluid and efficient in her detailed movements.

She could make stirring up pancakes a totally joyful experience. The fun all began in her favorite mixing bowl — a heavy blue and white crock trimmed with tiny yellow flowers — which tucked perfectly between her left hip and forearm. She’d grab a big wooden spoon from the tall jar by the stove and start the process of beating that dense blob of pancake batter to within an inch of its life. 

First it was a slow, smooth, circular pattern as though she were conducting a somber funeral dirge. As the batter quickened, she picked up the pace and did a little waltz around the kitchen, stroking and stroking and stroking. The downbeat brought the spoon firmly to the bowl’s wide bottom while beats two and three twirled it lightly back up to the top. Pausing occasionally to pick up a little brown pitcher and add more liquid to the mix, Aunt Helen would begin her dance again with new vigor. Changing to a sassy cha cha or a good old Texas two step around the kitchen table, she beat fluffy life into her beloved batter. 

By this time I would be hopping around the floor imitating her and we’d be laughing so hard we cried. But the best part — the part that stole the whole show — was the sheer momentum her wrinkles gained as she stirred that bowl with more and more gusto. The folds of loose fat on her arms flapped and jiggled and bumped into each other with such fierce energy I swear I could feel a breeze in the air. And the sound of those fleshy castanets echoed off the walls and brought the music in our heads to rhythmic life.

Nobody could cook up a storm like my Aunt Helen!

3 Shorts, by Sara Robbins

1. Ways to Cross a River

You are living near the river. Do you travel in a boat to the other side? Do you walk the new pedestrian bridge built some years ago? Or do you ever drive across the Mid-Hudson Bridge to go hike Minnewaska or see a play in Woodstock? Somehow I doubt you do either.

"The river is wide, I cannot cross over . . . " I used to play this song on the piano in the living room. I would sing the lyrics — "Build me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row, my true love and I." I always teared up when I sang that song. I still do.

Your parents had a boat. They belonged to the Wasps only yacht club. Once, only once, you took me to that boat in dry dock. We snuck on board. It was cold — too cold to get naked — so we didn't stay long, but I was clearly the aggressor that day. It was awkward and we never went back there.

And you never took me out on the river. I remember years before, watching the crew team rowing on the Hudson. You were the coxswain, the one who sat in front yelling through a megaphone. When the race was over your team had won and they threw you into the water! Everyone was yelling and laughing and you were laughing too, a  dripping wet blonde boy pulled from the water.

I saw you that day, but another boy approached me first and got my phone number. I did see you though, for the first time that very day. I even remember what I was wearing. My memory is too powerful for my own damn good.

And I haven't crossed that river in decades. Have you?

2. Twenty Dollars

$20 isn't much these days. But I remember going grocery shopping with my sister in 1964 when she was 16 and I was 13. My mother had given one of us a twenty dollar bill and a long shopping list. We filled the cart. I remember spaghetti and milk and ground meat and canned tomatoes and iceberg lettuce, orange juice, Italian bread and a bag of apples. And when it was time to pay — the 20 was gone! Disappeared! Missing! Lost!

We freaked and drove home empty-handed. My mother was upset. "How could you lose twenty dollars!" She drove to the store herself. Twenty dollars! A huge loss back then, even when we had money to burn.

3. How Many

How many times have we said good-bye? 

Be well, good luck, call again.

Please call again.

Is it 10 times, is it 25, is it 30?

How many years since that first time — was it really forty-five years ago?

How many years until the next time?

Good-bye, be well, please stay alive

so we can keep saying 

"Good-bye, be well."

One, by Barbara Brazill

one crisp october morning

one bright sun shining through the scattered cloudbreak

one brilliant crimson orange tree robust and bursting with color

one slender fish circling under the footbridge

one cardinal singing loud and shrill across the treetops

one brown speckled duck sitting

one-legged in the shallow creek

one flirty squirrel proudly perched on

one low branch squawking outloud

one round red bush sprawling across the sidewalk's edge

one black spotted cat scooting swiftly over pavement

one brisk walking woman carrying her thoughts through

one moment of glory over

one million crunching leaves in

one lifetime

The Flasher, by Annie Wexler

She wore her issues on her sleeve. And I mean in the literal, not the metaphorical, sense. It had been like this from the beginning.

Samantha started life in the ordinary way. She spent her first year sleeping under a brightly colored patterned quilt. Perhaps that’s how it started. She would hum for hours in her crib just staring at the patterns and cooing. By age two she was already expressing herself through the visual. She would point to objects to make her feelings understood. If she was happy, a vase of flowers. If she was hungry, the bowl of fruit on the table. If she was sad or angry, the black dot in the middle of a Jackson Pollack reproduction that hung in her parents' bedroom. At age four she was drawing or painting to express herself. But still, no words. At age five they took her to a child psychiatrist. He was a tall man. He was a fat man. He was a man with a full gray beard. Samantha took one look at him and his room full of dorky therapy dolls and said to her mother in a clear loud voice, “All right! So I’ll talk.”

I met Samantha when we were both living in New York City and working at Delmonico’s in the Village. We had both graduated from City College. Neither of us had any ambitions to go to graduate school so we wound up together in the restaurant, I was a hostess, she was a bartender. “Call me Sam,” she had said. That spring I had a sublet on a small studio on 12^th Street and my lease was about to run out. “I have a one bedroom,” Sam said. “Why don’t you move in with me and we can share the rent.”

She wasn’t very talkative even then. She had to make small talk at the bar with the customers and she could do that fine. She could chat about the weather or whether we needed a quart of milk in the apartment, but regarding feelings, nothing. I remember the first time it happened. We were walking together to Delmonico's one mild afternoon when I sensed that Sam was distressed about something. I asked her what was wrong, fully expecting the familiar mumbled “nothing,” when she flashed me the inside of her arm. There she had painted, in red, the words, “PMS headache.” For a moment I thought I was seeing things. “Show me that again,” I said. And there it was.

She wouldn’t talk about it any further but the inside of her arm became her vehicle for emotional expression and the colors matched her mood. One day she’d flash a yellow tulip with the words, “Happy Today.” Another day there would be a chaotic jumble of green and purple with the words, “Confused, What am I doing with my life?” And then black stripes with large red dots, “Mad at Josh — breaking up.” 

Slowly she began to open up to what was behind the colors and would actually talk to me. We were getting close, becoming real friends.

One day, about a year after I moved in with her, she flashed her arm at me. She had pink hearts in a big circle and the words, “I think I love you, do you?” I tried to tell her no as gently as I could. But all conversation stopped there. She painted dark swirling clouds and angry gray faces every day for a month until the words appeared, “MOVE OUT.” 

That was forty years ago. I never saw Samantha again but I thought about her often, and I still do. She was unique and life must have been hard for her. And looking back I realize that I probably did truly love her.

Leaves Let Go, by Stacey Murphy

It is not the way of leaves

To care about how they fall.

It doesn’t matter

Whether there are heavy, thunder-filled

Clouds overhead

Or miles of bright blue and sunshine.

A leaf doesn’t

Cry out in pain if a harsh wind

Tugs it from its twig

Nor does it giggle with mischief if it

Manages to break  free on its own.

A leaf doesn’t

Fret over which is better:

To swoop down in a wild, swirling canopy, a rustling riot of

Yellow magic with hundreds of others –

Or to flutter demurely to the ground

In a quiet, private moment.

Leaves  never consider holding on,

Resisting destiny,

Afraid to take their part

In the inevitable pattern.

For the leaf, simply letting go is the thing.

Wings, by Carrie Stearns

Have I ever had wings?

If I did I think I must have liked them.

Just the thought of them makes me smile.

Wings make their own kind of wind.

Wings can open wide or close up tight.

I think I would like to tuck myself under a wing

take shelter in its softness 

and sleep.

Crashing Onto the Beaches, by Melissa Hamilton

I want to be the kind of woman who would drive all night

with windows down

looking for salt air to yell, “stop!”

As if I had lain in a dungeon for years,

this first sight of ocean, better than food.

I want to be the kind of woman who would barely park between the lines, leave sunscreen on the seat and sprint down the sands.

Never heeding the beach towels and castles —

there is reason they call it Baptism.

First Sentences, by Yvonne Fisher

She loved beginnings, always a fresh start.

She woke up with enthusiasm, a new day lay ahead of her.

She didn't yet know what was in store for her but she felt ready for anything.

She stumbled out of bed achy, cranky, hungover, and mad.

She woke up with nightmares trailing behind her, wrapping circles around her as the day began.

She woke up, looked around and didn't recognize anything.

She knew she was in trouble when she realized that she didn't know where she was.

She wandered around searching for something familiar.

She found herself in the desert wandering, parched and thirsty.

She woke up to a great cup of coffee.

She found herself in the middle of a dream.

She didn't know how she got there.

She was in the Bermuda Triangle swimming for her life.

She was on a great adventure and had no idea of what was about to occur.

She lived through many impossible things: earthquakes, volcanoes, floods, and now this.

She picked an apple off the tree and heard a deep and powerful voice call down to her.

She saw a snake in the garden looking at her with a demonic glare.

She spoke to the naked man next to her, the only one around, and he told her that she came from his rib.

She found herself in a kind of paradise and yet she felt a dread deep inside of her, and then it rained and rained for what seemed like 40 days and nights.

She felt like she was all women throughout time and history — all women lived inside of her.

She put on her makeup and wondered who she really was.

She had a sense of somebody standing behind her watching her.

She looked in the mirror and she didn't know whether to be happy or sad, scared or exhilarated.

She couldn't get a grasp on what was about to happen.

She found herself in the middle of a mysterious life.

She didn't know whose life she was living and yet somehow she moved forward.

She opened the door and entered a new room.

She fell in love like never before.

She fell into a hole and tumbled down, down, down.

She fell out of the airplane waiting for the parachute to open.

She wanted to live an extraordinary life.

She wanted to live a great adventure.

She wanted peace and calm more than anything else.

She wanted love in her life and she went after it.

She wanted it all and this is what happened.

She wanted a life filled with surprise and wonder.

She wondered what would happen if she went up those stairs, through that door, out that window, off that plane.

She knew that her life was about to begin.

She felt something coming in her direction and she opened to it.

She leapt off the roof onto the next roof like a bird.

She stood at the edge of the cliff and she bent her knees to jump.

She flew through the air with the greatest of ease.

She jumped off the cliff and didn't look down.

She opened her arms and spread her wings.

She appeared to actually be flying into space and then . . . .