It just goes on and on- and this is surprising. How I have to keep doing this…and “getting this,” though I still feel utterly disoriented and confused babbling to myself often, “I don’t understand this.” Still- I function and listen to myself talking of details. And time is not a line- but a spiral. And I circle and step over this again and again.
You think that their
dying is the worst
thing that could happen.
Then they stay dead.
Donald Hall, poet (part of a longer haiku written on the death of his wife, poet Jane Kenyon)
(Thank you Anne.)
For any other list-makers out there, I published this on HerStories yesterday.""In this time of quarantine, my lists are offering me space outside of the walls of my home, a way of making sense of chaos, a self-imposed structure on structure-less days, and even a way...