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!