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Liz’s Life

0 In Liz's Life

Arctic Deep-freeze, February 2021

I woke about midnight to hear the wind chimes hanging from my oak tree clanging wildly and the deceptively shy “ticking” on the windows. I looked out to see more than an inch of ice on the branches of the oak that spreads over two-thirds of my backyard. I could see it because the branches were bent down in front of the bedroom window. Another branch was peering into the dining room window. The branch that had rattled the wind chimes was lying on the ground.

Oh, this was so not good. But what do you do about a steady fall of freezing rain at midnight? Holler, “Stop!”? The thunderless flashes of lightning that followed did not bode well.

I had no sooner gotten nervously back into bed when I heard the sound dreaded by anyone who has large trees in their yard: the slow creaking crack of a tree giving up to a superior force of ice. It was either mine or a neighbor’s, but I couldn’t see which.

Moments later, my phone pinged. A friend was texting images of the giant oak in her front yard that had come down scraping the front of her house. For the next hour, the two of us nervously texted back and forth as I listened to more branches crash.

I was fortunate. Though the crack I’d heard was indeed one of my trees, and it had taken the top of another tree with it, the damage I suffered was minimal. My friend’s heavily treed property has been mauled by the ice. Another friend had a tree come through a window and siding torn off. Both were blocked in by trees and debris across driveways and roads and left without heat.

Since then, I have watched dismayed as the Artic air has ravaged across the country affecting friends and family from Oregon, to Colorado and Texas, to Ohio and Pennsylvania. A cousin in Florida sent pictures of her thriving orchids on her lanai. For a moment I considered disowning her.

My thoughts and a virtual warm blanket go out to the millions still left in the dark and cold with damaged homes. I can only hope that you stay warm, have friends or family who can bring you a warm meal or let you use a hot shower, and that we all get though this.

Be well and safe. Liz

0 In Liz's Life

Good-bye 2020. We won’t miss you.

I don’t think there is a person in the world who isn’t relieved to see the end of 2020, though there is not one of us who will forget it. In the US, more than 300,000 dead from Covid-19, and still counting; hundreds of thousands of families–millions around the world–grieving and unable to say final good-byes; unknown numbers suffering a variety of long-term symptoms; nurses and doctors–no strangers to illness and death–traumatized by the sight of the dead, of their hospitals being overrun with patients, and the prospect of choosing who lives and who dies. Millions of jobs have been lost, businesses shuttered, some never to open again, and millions left with not enough to eat and uncertainty about whether they’ll be able to stay in their homes and apartments.

Then there were the natural disasters: the wildfires, the hurricanes, derechos, floods, and typhoons; and the not-so-natural disasters–half of Beirut leveled by an explosion; violence against gatherings of peaceful protestors and against individual men and women of color; and the peace of Christmas morning in Nashville shattered by a bomb. The only bright spot: the blisteringly fast development of vaccines that promise to control the pandemic.

Good-bye, 2020, and good riddance.

May this new year bring health to those who have been ill, solace to those who are grieving, help for those whose homes and jobs have been put at risk, awareness of our responsibility toward each other, and the beginning of a return to normal for all of us.

Welcome, 2021. May you be a kinder, gentler year.

0 In Liz's Life

Finding Joy

I found this quote from Moby Dick years ago. Since then, I’ve repeated it to myself in dark times to remind me to look for that kernel of joy, however small and however “deep down and deep inland.” Perhaps it can serve as a reminder to you, too, in times of loss, or even simple frustration, that we all carry those seeds of joy hidden away and that they will grow again, eventually.

0 In Liz's Life

Spring in Oregon

Look at the cherry blossoms! / Their color and scent fall with them, / Are gone forever, / Yet mindless / The spring comes again.” Ikkyu      

One of my favorite places to walk is an old cemetery not far from my home. Spring is a particularly favorite time, not only because of all the old trees coming into leaf, but because of the number of flowering trees planted there, especially cherry trees.

The cherries always remind me of a spring in Japan when I was grateful to be alive after an awful illness the previous winter. Every time I see the fragile blossoms of the cherries against the gnarled and weathered bark of a sixty-year-old tree, I’m reminded to hope.

Even in a time of pandemic, they bring me joy.