Details

Oh, honey—you want details? You're willing to overlook "boring" as long as I provide details? At seven last night our Winter CSA delivery arrived. Details: a small head of romaine, two bags of mixed greens, three bunches of kale, a bag of onions, two bags of potatoes, a bag of arugula, a large head of radicchio, two beets, a red pepper and a yellow one, four poblano peppers, four little heads of garlic, a bag of shallots, two large bunches of carrots, and four Asian pears. I'm sure I've missed something, but I'll stop here. Just to remind you: only two people live in this house. My point, however, is that last night all I did was put these things away; that is, I didn't process any of the items. Therefore, today's work looms.

 

Before 9:30 this morning I washed the romaine and wrapped it, ready for a tonight's salad. The remaining two bags of various lettuce-y leaves I put to soak in the sink. I also made the bed and changed the vacuum cleaner bag to be ready for my labour-saving Cristina, who will arrive this afternoon.

 

I'll need to prioritize the eating of these veggies. The longer-lasting ones can sit for a couple of weeks, while we binge on salads (croutons, anyone?). The NYT suggested an onion tart recently, and since both the Virtual Farmers' Market and our CSA brought onions this week, the time is right for an onion tart.

 

See, when I'm in overwhelm, this is what I do (you probably knew this already): I list. I share with you every detail that runs through my little listing pea brain. Thus do I avoid having to talk about anything that really touches me. The scary stuff.

 

The truth? I'm hanging on. Had word yesterday that a dear friend is slipping into dementia. The news struck me speechless, and I still have no words to describe how I feel.

 

All one can do is marvel at the everyday—the details, in fact. Marvel at the routines of these truncated Covid lives we're in the midst of. Just keep going and keep appreciating, because even this can all be taken away in the blink of an eye. We all know it. But when the disaster hits and the end of that comfortable, predictable life is in my face, then I will regret not having truly enjoyed what I had before I lost it.

 

And it's ALL been said before. But you asked me to tell you the details. Let's go wash some lettuce.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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Through the Window and Beyond

When I tire of watching the Hollywood Squares of Zoom, I can look out the window beside my computer. Actually, I don't tire of watching those dear faces, but the window distracts me with movement. In the relative foreground are my neighbour's two tall cedars, and they are a flurry of activity, even in frigid weather. At least I assume it's frigid because the inside of our house is cold. I haven't actually ventured outside for longer than I will admit. Does it count that I walked two doors down to deliver some mince tarts to neighbours? Or that the next day I met another neighbour in the middle of the street to give her a plate of mince tarts? (And thus I remove from our kitchen the temptation of unbelievably delicious mince tarts.) These two little walks are a far cry from the daily twenty-minute walks I was subjecting myself to before Christmas—themselves a far cry from the hour-long walks I used to take.

 

Did I really digress this far from the cedar trees? Black squirrels bounce through the boughs all day long. This morning a grey squirrel leaped from the neighbour's roof and barely managed to stick the landing. The star of today's show, however, is a blue jay. I haven't seen him for weeks—probably because I don't watch these cedars all day long. But there he is today, fluttering from branch to branch in search of cedar berries.

 

And that reminds me that when one of our grandsons was not quite two years old his ambitious parents hung on his bedroom wall a large poster of some twenty birds. At bedtime, as only the new parents of a single child can, they would hold him before the poster and he would say goodnight to each bird. And until you have heard a beloved two-year-old lisp, "G'night, wobin, g'night, bwue jay, g'night, cedah waxwing", you haven't experienced joy. I'm pretty sure the current edition of that grandson wouldn't know a cedar waxwing from a sparrow—but he has other merits.

 

Was there a point to all this? To any of it? Oh, yes. The blue jay in the cedars. I see these same cedars from the wall-of-windows in the media room, where we watch TV of an evening. To clarify: where we work our way through the DVDs of the past. If the British mystery being screened by the projectionist (DinoVino) fails to hold my interest, I float my gaze to the cedars and—as long as it's still light out—there's always activity. Given my current level of sloth, I continue to be grateful that I do not have to scramble like a squirrel to fill my fat tummy.

 

Now, what I really wanted to talk about today was how Covid 19's restrictions have affected my response to emails. I find it increasingly difficult to marshal the energy—psychic, mental, or physical—to respond appropriately to letters from friends. Long or short, the emails seem to require of me more than I can give. Empathy, wit, even a flat-out coherent sentence (one whose nuances can't be misconstrued)—these are beyond me, and this failure on my part makes me feel more isolated than ever.

 

So okay, what just came to mind is this: Get out of your own head! Did you ever think that the correspondent you aren't answering might like to have a note from you? Who cares if it lacks your traditional polished wit? (That's a joke.) Just put your fingers on the keyboard, close your eyes, and touch-type a short, sweet note. Just do it.

 

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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How to Do It

Do what you can and let that be enough.

Stop trying to mend all the ills

of this world.

 

Do what you can.

Release the millstone of guilt

you've been dragging in your wake.

You need not wait till all is well.

 

Do what you can,

what suits your own quiet genius.

Notice what is

and encourage yourself to notice

more frequently.

"Always" might be good; work toward it.

 

Offer love,

without waiting to be recognized for this.

Follow your star.

Add your grain of golden sand

to the accumulated wealth of delight

that simply on its own

will heal the Universe.

 

Some things you know.

Some, you believe.

But always

just do what you can.

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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The Art of Change

The art of change is my focus. The art of being open to change. There's a well-known New-Age-y hint that one should make it a point to say "yes" to every opportunity that presents itself. Are they serious? Painful as it is to contemplate this, it has made me aware of how much I am the opposite: my first impulse, always, is to say "no"! Even I can see the need for more openness than this in my life.

 

So let's look at exercise. I love to walk. I have always walked in the city, taking public transit when I have to but walking to and from stations in the process. Well, with Covid I'm not going out: no concerts or plays, no restaurant meals. I now take the subway only rarely—and certainly not frequently enough for any related walking to count as exercise.

 

And then, out of the blue, came winter. Cold weather. Which has made me even less interested in walking. Unfortunately, with Covid, eating has replaced everything else as the passion du jour, so it's clear that some form of exercise is required—either that or a new wardrobe.

 

I found a 30-minute exercise program for the rebounder, which I use every morning anyway, but this is more intense. Now three days a week I bounce along with the filmed-ini-Mexico tape of a young Australian woman. There I am doing toe taps and heel digs and side taps, raising arms as I lift knees—the whole exercise sort of movement that I would never do on my own. And by the end of each session I definitely know I have been working out.

 

On alternate days I follow a 20-minute chair yoga session that stretches all those places I don't like to stretch. Again, my guide is a tape of a young woman who leads me through the gentle twists and postures. I must admit this is the best form of yoga for me. In an actual yoga class some competitive demon rises from my reptilian brain and pushes me dangerously beyond my limits. That doesn't happen in my class of one.

 

So here I am, moving every day, vigorously or gently. I no longer feel guilty if I don't want to face the winter weather for an outside walk. I have said "yes!" and embraced something new.

 

 

Copyright © 2021 Ann Tudor
Musings blog: http://www.scenesfromthejourney.blogspot.com

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