Choosing to be PC

I am tired of people who make fun of and criticize those of us who make an effort to be "Politically Correct (PC)" because they, the critics, want to do and say mean things. How "tedious" those critics say we are when we try to be sensitive to the feelings of others, as if tediousness were a worse affront than what they are perpetrating with their thoughtless (or intentional) meanness.
I'll be the first to admit my own occasional hypocrisy in that I, too, have said, upon occasions, "forgive me for this un-PC remark (or joke), but . . . " and then proceeded to say something that might offend someone else if they were listening (I'm assuming [and hoping] they are not.) However, I try to be careful, to do it as rarely as possible, be aware of the possible harm of it, and feel appropriately guilty.
These days, (some) people (alarmingly many) seem to have lost the ability to feel shame and guilt for inappropriate behavior. Strangely, the radio, which happens to be on as I write this, just repeated the exact words I was writing, a synchronicity that echoes and underscores the spiritual nature of this quest. "What quest?" you might ask. Why, the continuing quest to live honorable lives and to make honorable choices, of course. To be good, to live a life based on making loving and thoughtful choices. Is that not what we all hope for, to be the best people we can be? This is why we need to examine our choices, our words, and our behavior.)
Do I, as an imperfect human, have the right to criticize others when I myself sometimes act out, act shamelessly. When I'm in a shamelessly negative frame of mind, I tend to be belligerent about my right to be wrong. Don't criticize me, my behavior seems to say, or I'll slap you down, if only verbally. It seems possible that other people might be following a similar script. (Where'd it come from?) I do not know why I am sometimes like that but I wish I weren't. Luckily, I'm not that way too often (I hope). I do tend to sometimes ignore my own foibles, but then again, I tirelessly beat up on myself, too. The point is, someone has to bring up issues like criticizing the PC. Not airing the dirty laundry keeps the elephant in the room endlessly, to mix metaphors. So yes, I can talk about this, even though I am imperfect. We must talk about it.
I would prefer that people would get over their objections to making a real attempt at being PC and stop hassling and criticizing those who attempt to express kindness though considered political correctness. Being PC means being kind, considerate, loving and caring. It means being inclusive rather than exclusive. It means being able to follow the golden rule at a deep level and to truly do unto others as you would have them do unto you. It means being sensitive to the needs and feelings of other. It means that if you have to laugh at someone, laugh at yourself, not someone else. I guess that's not cool in our brash new society, but I'd like everyone to get over a version of "coolness" that requires meanness (in my opinion, there is nothing cool about cruelty) and consider a version of coolness that involves love and consideration.
OK, so I'm a Goody Two-Shoes (where did that expression come from--if I knew, I've forgotten) and sounding almost religious and preachy. I don't want to be preachy or offend or be offended. I don't want to be mean to others or have them be mean to me. I don't want to make blond jokes or forgive me Polak jokes or jokes about fat people or stupid people or "retards" or anyone else. No jokes about old people or short people, either.
Why is it that we want to join others in laughing at someone else? Is it an instinctive behavior, like chickens pecking to death an injured comrade or wolves attacking and killing a non-pack-member that inadvertently wanders into their midst? Is it like sororities and fraternities? If you laugh hard enough at someone else's expense, you get to be in the in-group? I wish that we could be civilized enough to rise above that pack-mentality behavior. Must we be sheep? Need we follow the hurtful examples of the lowest common denominator?
I want us all, including me, to be aware of what we are saying and speak and act with love in our hearts in an honorable thoughtful way and I want others to treat me that way. It's not always easy, but I'd like us to work at it and have others do the same and not criticize those who try--in my mind, it's the constant critics who are tedious, not those who try to be PC.

Keeping Company

Keeping Company, by Mary Stebbins Taitt. Click to view larger.

What I Ate for Lunch

My blogger friend, Leah, is beautiful and looks young for her age. She's a great blogger and nonfiction writer, a poet, a photographer, and a wonderful perceptive kind loving friend. I love her.

One day at lunch, as bloggers do, we talked about blogging. We both admitted that we like to blog, we sometimes resent the time involved, and we don't always like other people's posts. Some are great, some OK, some boring.

"I hate reading about what people ate for lunch!" Leah told me emphatically. I winced. I myself am guilty of writing about what I had for lunch.

This reminds me of a story. I had a stalker for a while, at least, that's what everyone called him. So I'll refer to him as Stalker Man. He used to come by my house and leave me notes and presents. That would have been worrisome enough, but worse yet, he meddled in my life, sent threatening letters to my ex-husband, without my permission (or prior knowledge), and to my boss, etc. I was really afraid of him and relieved to move away where he could hopefully no longer bother me.

During the time after my second husband left me, I dated a number of men, mostly briefly, before I gave up on men entirely for many years. Stalker Man was one of the reasons for my giving up on men. (Biker Buddy was my sole reason for starting up with men again.)

During the time I was dating, I dated a man who worked in construction. He was a stonemason and carpenter. He was rough looking on the outside but kind, gentle and sweet. I adored him. I'll call him Mason Man.

Stalker Man came by my house almost every day while I was at work. He drove a big truck, and every time he drove in and out of my driveway, he drove across the grass. In the spring and winter, he made big muddy ruts in the lawn.

Long after we quit seeing each other, Mason Man stopped by to visit me. He too drove a big truck, to haul construction supplies. Because there was a car parked in my driveway, Mason Man drove up on the lawn in case the person to whom the car belonged needed to leave. (She didn't—it was my mother's car and she was in the nursing home.)

During the course of my conversation with Mason Man, standing in the yard with his truck, I was noticing the deep ruts in my lawn made by Stalker Man. Understand: I really like Mason Man, whereas I was afraid of Stalker Man and found him annoying. I mentioned Stalker Man's ruts to Mason Man, and he apologized profusely for driving on my lawn. I was SO embarrassed. It hadn't occurred to me that Mason Man would think I was criticizing HIM. I wasn't! I wouldn't. I didn't care if he drove on my lawn. I was angry at Stalker Man and it had nothing at all to do with Mason Man. I told him that, but I didn't think he believed me, and I felt really bad. I wish Mason man knew I didn't mean to criticize him. That I cared about him and never meant to upset him. The worst thing is, I haven't seen him since the day I criticized Stalker Man to him. I've been unable to tell him again I care about him and had no intention to criticize him. He could drive on my lawn all he wanted.

What does all this have to do with what I ate for lunch? I don't know whether Leah meant to criticize MY talking about what I ate for lunch or whether she meant the criticism as an analogy for boring posts in general or some specific other blogger who wrote often about food. In a way, it doesn't matter. Because I love Leah, and her criticism of my blog, whether intentional or unintentional, is well taken. Her blog is much more interesting than mine.

Here's what I say (excuses, excuses):

• I have a lot going on with my family and life right now with the death of my mother, her estate, and the sale of her house, my move (still not unpacked), my art my writing and so on.

• I am putting my writing energy into my novels and poetry. Also investing time and energy in my art.

I could go on, but I won't. Why do I blog then, if it's not the highest priority in my life. I don't really know, maybe I shouldn't.

But I have another issue about what I ate for lunch. I had no lunch, and it's 1:38 PM and I may not get any lunch. I often miss my lunch. I seem to be so busy lately. It's ridiculous how busy I am, and for what?

Busy-ness, though, is not the worst problem with talking and writing about food. The real problem is, I have issues with food. I am overweight, my weight threatens my health, and I can't get it under control. And all my doctors can't help. Or don't.

Maybe I shouldn't be writing about what I ate for lunch. But I like to. I'm interested in food. Supposedly, one should eat to live, not live to eat. I'm not in either category, but I do like to eat and I like to write about eating and food.

I recently wrote a story about Key Lime Pie, but I didn't post it, because I was thinking about what Leah said about not liking to read about what someone had for lunch. I thought about making a separate blog and naming it, "What I Ate For Lunch" and putting food talk and recipes on it. But, I have too many blogs already! I'd like to cut down on the number of blogs I maintain, not increase them.

So, I am going to label all my food-related posts, "What I Ate for Lunch" plus a subtitle. Then anyone who doesn't want to read about what I had for lunch can skip that post. And yes, Leah, if you're reading this, I DO realize you might not have meant me (Hence the story about Stalker Man and Mason Man.)

So here then, finally, is my "first" (new) post under the "what I ate for lunch" category. It is not really the first one, but it will be the first one with that label. I will go back and label the old ones and then maybe post the Key Lime Pie story and some addendums to it. Maybe. If I ever have time.

"What I Ate for Lunch; Spicy orange Syrup on Whole Grain Pancakes"

As I'm sure you realize by now, I'm getting old. I'm 61 years old. I have a problem that bloggers rarely blog about: constipation. It's unpleasant and I don't intend to talk about it here, at least not much. I've tried all sorts of remedies without much success. The one thing that seems to work fairly well with a minimum of unpleasant side effects is bran. But bran is hard to take and no, psillium pills do not work.

I've experimented with various delivery systems for the bran, and my current delivery system is pancakes. With every meal, I make a whole-wheat bran pancake, because it's quick and easy and the taste is fairly acceptable. But it's better with syrup.

Syrup is "bad." It's high in sugar and being overweight, I do not need a lot of sugar in my diet. I also don't like paying the high cost of maple syrup, even though it's yummy. So I've been experimenting with homemade syrups. My mother used to make homemade syrups.

I made a delicious vanilla syrup. I made an elderberry syrup (I'm done at the doctor's and headed out and that's another story, a story about honesty and truthfulness and the goldfish I'd LIKE to write about.) My favorite syrup so far is the one I made last night, spicy orange syrup. It's perfect on my bran pancake and it tastes so good it's almost like a dessert. And I don't need desserts!

Here's how I made it. I did NOT use a recipe; because we got home really late last night and we were very hungry and I didn't want to waste time looking up recipes, so I invented one. I made it while concocting an ad hoc stir-fry (not sure if ad hoc is the right word here). I put one cup or sugar and about 2 tablespoons of water in a large saucepan on medium heat. The water did not entirely dampen the sugar but made it dissolve faster as it heated up. I heated it and stirred it until it boiled and then about two more minutes, took it 3/4 off the heat and added about a quarter of a cup of frozen concentrated (undiluted) orange juice and 2 sprinkles each of cinnamon and cloves. I stirred it until well mixed over the ¼ burner, cooled it, and decanted it into a plastic squeeze bottle to squeeze onto my pancake. It was wonderful.

Next time I'm going to try adding a little orange zest.

It could be served on dessert pancakes. For presentation, sprinkle the pancake with powdered sugar from a sugar shaker and then make a spiral or other design with the orange the orange syrup. Serve with a wedge of orange and three cherries or a scoop of vanilla ice cream also decorated with the orange syrup.

I made the pancake with a scant 1/2 cup whole wheat pastry flour, ¼ cup mixed bran (wheat, oat and corn), ½ teaspoon baking powder, a sprinkle of salt and sugar, a teaspoon of canola oil and enough rice milk to make a batter. I fried it in a teaspoon or two of canola oil. Crepes would work well with the syrup instead.

Today's Detroit Photo

Wordless Wednesday

Unearned Ecstasy

I lie in bed beside my husband and I cannot sleep. I'm twitchy, and I know I am disturbing him, and he has to get up at 4:21 AM to go to work. I try to lie still, but it is hard. Almost impossible. I hold myself rigid in an attempt not to wiggle.

Finally, I drift off to sleep. I dream I am flying along and above the surface of a huge rippling sphere, which seems to be made of gently billowing silk-like substance. The iridescent colors of the surface of the sphere change and undulate with the movement of the "fabric." I explore and experience, color, movement, shape, love. I am pure experience. I am ecstasy. I am joy. I am delighted by the sphere and my experience of it. I am so ecstatic and so joyful that I cannot contain my joy. I am bursting with it, and it awakens me.

I am awake again; I cannot sleep.

I lie awake and watch the clock. I pretend I am falling asleep. I pretend I am sleeping, but I am not. After an hour of watching the clock, I give up and get out of bed. Ironically, I was at the doctor's today, for insomnia. Decided to go 12 weeks without meds. AK.

I decide that in the dream, I am an angel. The sphere is my angelic (heavenly) experience of God, of Godliness. Not my only experience, but one experience. Sometimes, when I am dreaming, it is as if I slip into another ongoing reality. The feeling in this dream was that this was a tiny fragment of something much larger.

I think about my teachers, always talking about unearned ecstasy, and I wonder when I did to "earn" the ecstasy of that dream. My teachers were talking about the unearned ecstasy of a poorly written poem. They did not necessarily mean that we had to earn the experience of ecstasy. Still, I heard so much about it that I cannot help but wonder if I have to earn it in life. I don't believe it needs to be earned (in life, not poetry), but I realize that I have been struggling with moral issues all day. Some larger, some smaller. Could the dream be a result of that struggle, or might I have been having a small seizure of some sort? (I read that many ecstatic nuns and monks had seizures that created their ecstatic experiences).

One of the issues I was struggling with will seem very minor to many people, but it is not minor to me. Henrietta called today and wanted me to buy a goldfish for Kit. One of Kit's goldfish had died and Henrietta told Kit that the fish had gone one a trip, like Kit's Dad in Iraq. Hoboy. I don't like deception. I think children should be told the truth about small deaths so they can more readily handle larger ones—and so that they will experience truth-telling. I didn't want to be part of a lie. I also didn't want to be responsible for killing another fish. The one that died was probably the one they were keeping in a beta bowl (very tiny) in the bathroom without a window. I'd die too. I didn't want to agree to it, but I said I would. Henrietta said, "It's only 15 cents." As if that were the point. It's not. Fish have a life. Kit needs to learn to respect life. To take care of life. AK.

Tonight, after dinner, shopping and putting away the groceries, Biker Buddy and I drove, as Henrietta had instructed, to Meier's, twenty minutes away, and bought a 15-cent goldfish. I pointed to the very one—the healthiest looking one in a tank of rather sickly looking goldfish. And then, we bought a little two-gallon tank with a light and a filter AND a real live plant to put inside it. It all cost well-over twenty dollars. A lot more than 15 cents, but that wasn't the point. Then we spent a lot of time assembling it all.

It's a plastic tank and I worried about out-gassing of formalin into the water from the plastic poisoning the fish, so we—Biker Buddy, that is—washed everything very well. I would like to replace 10% or more of the water every day until all the formalin has out-gassed, or at least until the amount out-gassing diminishes, but I won't have the tank. I won't be able to control what Kit or Henrietta feeds the fish or how well they keep the tank clean. I won't be able to control whether the fish I bought and now feel responsible for lives (not that I could anyway, but I could try) or what kind of stories Henrietta tells Kit about the fate of the other fish or the life of this one. Or what she says about where the tank came from in the fish's imaginary travels. Moral dilemma number one. Only one of several moral dilemmas today, but I will skip the others.

I realize very few people care about the life of a 15-cent goldfish. One could argue that if I were concerned about that life, what about the life or a mosquito I slap on my arm? I didn't used to—I used to refuse to kill mosquitoes—and in fact, I often still just brush them away. But when there are lots and I get agitated, I do kill them—it's a form of "self-defense." Or whatever. I'm not perfect—far far from it. And I do worry about killing mosquitoes, too. I worry about the tiny insects I inadvertently step on when I'm walking. I can't do anything about it, but when I think about it, I feel sad.

I once had a vision. I was sitting in a park in broad daylight, and I wasn't asleep. I'm not religious. But Jesus came to me. He told me I was forgiven forever. I did not believe him. I don't feel like it. In my dream, I was in "heaven" and I was "an angel." I was gloriously forgiven for everything; I was ecstatic. In some very small way, I earned it trying to save that goldfish. Or not. Maybe that wasn't it at all.

If indeed I deserve ecstasy, if I earned it, why am I awake with insomnia and no sleep at all at 2 AM? I don't, I assure you—ecstasy is a gift! It has to be, none of us deserve it! No sleep at all? Well, I was probably asleep at least 2 minutes to have that dream. It wasn't much more, because I was awake at 12:40 and awake at 12:43 and in between, I had that dream. The Ecstatic Sphere. The earned or unearned Ecstatic Sphere. A small gift in a long night.

PS: Biker Buddy suggested that my dream may have been stimulated by one of the pieces we saw at the Hot House Exhibit at Cranbrook Art Museum. The picture doesn't do it justice. It was very colorful and multicolored, though not a sphere. I loved it! While I was viewing it, several times during my visit, I wanted to go inside it, but was afraid to, because the mean curators there often yell if they think you're doing something inappropriate. It seemed obvious to me that you were meant to go inside it. It you click the image, you can also see some of the other pieces we viewed at the exhibit.

Wordless Wednesday

(From the work of Tim Burke. Photo by Mary Stebbins Taitt)

Meaningful Lives and me

Occasionally, I read a novel that is more like life than most I read. I read one such a while ago, but unfortunately; I've forgotten it name. The protagonist was a klutz and everything always went wrong. If I wrote a truthful story of my own life, that's what it would be like. A comedy (or tragedy) of errors.

I did not want to write about my failed day. I wanted to write something meaningful. I had a whole list of topics to explore, including some of the people I admire and why I admire them.

For example, Tim Burke. I don't know him; I just met him at his home at the Heidelberg Project. This is why I admire him:

• Ø He's an artist. He's a real artist (whatever that means.)* He makes and sells art. He is serious about his work), but playful as well. Best of all, he lives like an artist. He lives in an art community, surrounded by his art. He makes a statement with everything he does.
• Ø He's a poet. He's a performance poet, and he does it well. He recites political poetry, poetry that might make a difference.
• Ø He combines his poetry and his art in performance and seeks to engage the public.

What do I like about him? He’s nice. I think what he's doing is important. I think art is important, I think poetry is important, and I think speaking out for what you believe is important. I'd like to be more like that. I'd like to live my art and poetry and speak out on important issues. Instead, I wallow. I wallow in a black hole of stupid wasteful activities.

Today, I tried to order tickets for the Harry Potter movie online because it's newly out, but Fandango kept saying, please enter a valid email address, even though I had. I Xed it out and tried again, numerous times. I called Star Theaters, emailed Fandango, wasting more and more time, but to no avail. This means that in order to assure we had seats, we had to go in really early. More wasted time.

I emailed back and forth about the sale of my mother's house. This is a daily or nearly daily activity that is a singularity of wasted time. Eventually, something positive may come of it. I sure hope so. But on a daily basis, it’s a time sink.

I could go on, but I won't; I will not list all the stupid things I did today instead of something useful and productive, except this: I wanted to have Biker Buddy's dinner ready the minute he got home from work so we could go right away to see Harry Potter. I am making grilled yellow fin tuna in a lemon-wine sauce with a side of fresh veggie mix in a curried wine sauce and a side of beans and rice and a fancy complex salad. In the midst of the elaborate preparation, I am reaching for the wine evacuator in the side of the silverware drawer and knock over the bottle of wine. It turns upside down in the silverware and special tools drawer and empties entirely into the drawer before I can rescue it.

Then, it begins draining out the bottom of the opened drawer onto my feet and the floor. Did I mention that what I had wanted to do today was work on my story and take a walk? Spinning through the darkness of Murphy, the day was almost gone, but I thought that once the tuna was marinating and the veggies cut and the sauce made, there's still be a little time to accomplish something.

But instead, I was cleaning a big mess on the counter, in the drawer, on the floor. I had to take all the silver and tools out and wash them, dry them and replace them after cleaning the drawer.
When Biker Buddy rolled in, I was just finishing cleaning up, and it was time to start the fish and veggies.

Now, I am sitting in the darkened theater, a half hour still to go before they even start the previews. I didn't work on my story and I didn't walk. I did no art. I didn't confront George Bush for ruining the environment or bombing babies. I did nothing useful or meaningful. I wasted a day trying to get Harry Potter tickets, talking about real estate, cleaning lost wine, and other unbearably unmentionable times sinks.

The people who do meaningful, good and useful things, do they have their own private Murphy diverter?*** Where can I get one?

*I am an artist, because I create art.** But I don't often consider myself a real artist because I rarely sell anything and don't live like an artist. I am a poet because I write poetry. I have a Master’s degree in poetry. But I don’t usually consider myself a “real” poet, because I don’t have a “real” book. I’m a photographer and have won awards for my Photography, but I don’t consider myself a “real” photographer. Don’t ask.

**What is art? What is poetry? Who defines what art is, what poetry is, what a novel is? Can I say for certain that I create art?

***Real people make art; I’ve met some of them. Real people write books, are doctors, find cures for diseases, etc. How do they stave off Murphy and the Black Hole? How do they fight Entropy?

This is an excerpt from my Journal for 7-17-07 and 7-18-07. The original full journal entry is posted here.
Another part of the journal edited and posted here.
Another picture of Tim Burke posted here.

PS, I messed up the QUIZ that I left while I was in Slovenia, so if you couldn't comment before, try again now. When I have 5 comments, or more (if they come in fast and furious, which I don't expect), I will post the answers.

It occurs to me that this post prolly should be placed in The Unbearable Darkness of Being instead of here. Oh well.

stocking up

I just hear the strangest thing on the radio--it was an advertisement encouraging people to stock up on apple pie for the 4th of July. I was confused. I thought apple pie was something you made, not something you "stocked up" on.

I guess I'm getting old. There are so many things about the new order I find upsetting, even such small things!

(Painting by me from an earlier photo, click to view larger. [The pie was by me, too, and tasty!])
--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary

Forget-me-not

In a Dream of Remembering, forget-me-nots. These remind me of my Mom, especially after I made that forget-me-not painting of her forget-me-nots after she died. These were from Cranbrook Oriental Garden, and the misty "effect" may have been caused by overheated "dew or perspiration" (otherwise known as sweat) devaporizing on the lens.

I did a new "quick painting" tonight of myself reflected in Biker Buddy's eye. I may do some additional work on it sometime.

I will be out of the country June 14-28, so I will not be blogging for quite a while, probably (at least once I leave and maybe while getting ready).

While I was Gone, by Sue Miller

What is it that makes a book good or bad? How do we decide if we like it, and whether to recommend it? It depends, of course, in part, on what we were looking for. On whether the book resonates, whether it engages us. Whether it changes us in some way, makes us think or feel. Every book is different, and even the same book is different which each rereading, and over time, as our experiences and outlooks change.

Last night I told my partner that the book I was currently reading, While I was Gone, by Sue Miller, disturbed me. The grammar checker said to write the last sentence that way, so it I did, but in truth, my original wording might be more accurate. The book did not disturb me; I was disturbed by the book.

I had purchased the book at a used bookstore because, in part, I had met the author when she spoke at my college. (This was not that long ago; I was an “adult” student.) (I should have bought the book new, so she would have gotten her due, her small cut. But I’m unemployed, a paltry excuse. If I were to write a book, I would need an income from it. I would want people to buy it, since I am otherwise unemployed, since writing would be my job and an income is appropriate for a job.)

I was disturbed by the book because it seemed as if a woman, Jo Becker, who loved her husband and was happy in her life was about to begin an affair. I was terrified by this because I want my own marriage to not be blemished by infidelity, and it seems so casual, so easy, and the wounds so deep. My partner suggested I put the book down and “stop reading fiction.” I did not and will not. But I was uncomfortable and unhappy while reading the book. Scared for the protagonists, scared for my partner and myself. The fear came from inside me. And yet, she manufactured that fear, she, Sue Miller. She shaped it. She related it to a universal fear. She disturbed me, with her book.

The back-story was familiar to me: life in a group home, a sort of commune, during the sixties. Things had gone terribly wrong. I enjoyed reading about life in the group home because it brought back memories of my younger days. The intensity, the idealism. And the story was compelling. Spellbinding. I didn’t want to leave it to do the necessary things in my life. (Now there’s a good reason not to read fiction!)

I don’t want to give away the ending. I hate it when reviewers do that. I liked the book. It was “good.” It engaged me, it resonated for me, it terrified me. Would I recommend it? Not for light reading. Not for escapism. Not for the pat kind of happy ending. But for an engaging read, yes. I would. I would definitely recommend it.

More Sue Miller.

Forget Me Not!

These forget-me-nots were growing in my mother's garden as I was preparing to leave her house for the last time after she died. I felt it was a little request--"Don't forget me!" Don't worry, I won't, Mom! (wahn!). I really miss my mother, and it hasn't subsided at all yet. Grief is a strange being that sits heavy on the heart and is not eager to depart.

They are in a small vase of hers on the front of Biker Buddy's car, which is reflecting the sky.

I posted 4 other flower photos to Photique 3, including trilliums au natural a wild geranium and the mighty lion. If interested in the others, click home while there and scroll to May 14. (I back-posted them for the flower challenge.)

Wordless Wednesday

Evening

We walk every day, or at least I do, for my fibromylagia. It was a beautiful spring day today, but I didn't get my walk while the sun was out. Instead, we went down to Lakeshore and walked in the evening, watching the subtle hues of evening shift to night. It was quiet, one of the first warm nights of spring and before all the loud boats ruin the stillness in summer.

Twice, we sat together and soaked in the stillness and beauty of the shifting light. I feel especially close at these times, which feel rarer than I might wish they'd be.