conjuring optimism

and keeping things vague
It astonishes me that so much that is sad and disturbing has happened in the two weeks or so since I've been back from my trip. Makes me long for a Hobbit house to disappear into -- or Badger's well-stocked home. Fantasy can save, but it seems the door is closed.

There have been surprises, too, not all sad, but disturbing in some instances and I haven't sorted them out yet. Ron will be fine, but it will be a longer recovery than anticipated. I have not gone to book parties that coincidentally happened for two good friends this week. And I didn't go to the launch of the Remarkable Women of Taos book last night. I'm even mentioned in it, but just couldn't face anything celebratory after hearing that the friend who had a stroke and seemed to be improving has had complications and is not expected to live. It's a waiting game now. I sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine and wrote and wrote until late into the night. Poem drafts, free writes -- because I have to find a way to deal with all of this without sustaining too much damage. The other alternative to writing is knitting and I'm randomly picking up the projects I started in the hospital a few days ago. This Handmaiden Casbah, hand-dyed cashmere blend, will make a generous and soft scarf. Makes me think of beach walking in March. Go know. Where will I be in March? What beach will I traverse?

And this sock in Crazy Zauberball (sp) sock yarn. I knitted it as I sat by Ron's bed (I'm not good at waiting) and the nurses gathered around and all said they wanted a pair -- and then another patient was wheeled in and they had to attend to their duties and no one was thinking about socks anymore. There is something to be said about small town hospitals (both negative and positive) and it's hard work to be a nurse in the Observation unit. But they all managed to be cheerful and friendly. If it weren't for the humble sock I would have gone crazy myself.

Too anxious to read, I started six different books on my iPad but couldn't concentrate on the words -- which does tend to interfere with reading. Remembered sitting by my dear friend's bed for weeks knitting socks as she was dying (I ended up with eight pairs!). I was available for her if she needed me, but not intrusive. At least that's what she said, and added: I like it. I hope when my time comes, there will be a quiet knitter in the room, a dog at her feet.

Writing last night was deeply satisfying and maybe something worthy will come out of it eventually and make it into the book, maybe not -- it doesn't matter at this point. What matters is getting it out. Allowing the unreliable narration of memory to flow.

Well, I'll be damned
Here comes your ghost again
But that's not unusual
It's just that the moon is full
And you happened to call
              (Joan Baez, Diamonds and Rust)