January 5, 2025
Sunday and a small ride


Oh no, I'm going to have to learn the technical side of this all over again.  How do you make the photos come out in the right order? 















I think I don't know how to manipulate them any longer.  Hmmmmm.  

    David took me to the rookery today.  It was a completely new place with  ice and large circles in the middle of the pond.   Last time I was there was Wednesday and it was warm and today it was raw and about 31.   It was so nice to go for a little ride and bump into a red tailed.  We didn't see much else as far as animals go, but we saw beauty.  And there was some sun and my body needed sun today.   






We drove up Green River Rd.  It was so dry, absolutely no ice dripping off the sides of rock or creeks frozen while spilling into the river.  Usually in January it is a crystal palace.  Not today.


    The blanket of grief lies gently on my chest.  I've gone in and out of thinking about age and life and complications.   I've thought of so many stories over so many years.  Last night my cousin Dana told me about being 11 and having his cool older cousin appear in their Ca. driveway on his Triumph and how far out that was.  Michael had left home and driven across country.  He did it a couple times, landing at Aunt Lois's, having some sense that that's where his life had begun.  He was born in a military hospital in Sacramento in 1944, removed from his mother for the first 3 days of his life, no one ever knew why.  

    The stories kept flowing last night, and they all spoke of this kind but mischievous guy who we all loved.  I started thinking about the long phone calls we had in 2000, him in the Worchester Hospital, awaiting a liver, and me in Greenfield trying to be the best pal I could be.  I spent a lot of time that year driving to and from Worcester, talking on the phone, talking about life versus death, would the helicopter arrive on time.  And in the end the liver came, Mike got 24 more years and had no memory of our long conversations, me on the porch, him in a hospital bed.  

I wonder what happens when our energy leaves our body behind?  I've felt that energy leave bodies, I felt Cynthia's energy go right through me and out the window, off into the hills.   I know my Mother's energy swept out over the Long Island Sound, released from a crippling body.  She went on.   And after Barbie died I saw that rainbow develop and grow above Bardswell Ferry Rd and I knew she was on it.  And when they placed her ashes into the Sound a single cormorant stayed and watched.  She watched her brothers say good bye.   I don't know the answer to the question, but I do know the energy goes on.

Ok, enough, tomorrow I will find out if my car is worth fixing and I will investigate what my options are.  And life will begin again. The grief won't go away and the stories will continue to be told, and I will search for more photos, but I will also go swim and face daily life, woven together, once again.

I do have a very strong desire to write the intricate complexities of the lives who have left my earthly being.  Some day.


 


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