For a poet, I think I’m late to the nesting and writing stages of coronavirus grief. But thanks to a cat, perimenopause and Natalie Goldberg, I’m here now.
and so these reflections are related to my perception of loss and love how? i’m not sure. but they’re showing me something even if it’s only this: girl, stop demanding that everything have meaning. some things are only what they are: the crow, the sky, the office building.
and everything else?
a poet sees a pair of sneakers on the sidewalk. she writes about them, of course. right? *sigh.* not this poet. she takes a picture of them. she saves them for later.
and so it’s interesting entering new relationships during that process. there are sharp twinges. there are phantom pains (“baggage,” as the kids say). but i’m feeling every one of them and taking in every detail. it sure as hell beats putting my head down and getting by.
it’s not a glamorous process. i’ve never been a graceful girl. i’m clumsy and awkward, and there’s a homeliness about how i navigate the world. but something interesting is happening: i can see that it’s its own kind of advantage. people who are afraid for others to see them stumble usually don’t attempt anything tricky. tricky is my middle name. and it has been tricky — lots of tricky things in rapid succession. so says dorothy: ‘people come and go so quickly here.’