You know, for those of my disciples who are able to stay at home, I'm happy for you. Don't complain. Enjoy the time. Do something that gives you pleasure. Connect with family and friends through whatever social media is available to you. Tell people that you love them, even if you aren't the kind of person who says those three words often. Listen to the birds outside your window. And think about the people who are out there, making sure you're safe. Those people struggle. Daily. Hourly. Minutely. Secondly. Don't diminish that struggle.
I am not panicking about this pandemic. I'm doing what I have to do to help my family survive intact. Yes, I write about things that are bothering me. Things that don't make sense. I struggle on a daily basis with worry. I admit it. That doesn't mean that I don't think of my life, and the lives of the people I love, as a daily gift.
Saint Marty ain't Chicken Little, and the sky ain't falling. It's just cloudy, with a chance of meatballs.
from Kyrie
by: Ellen Bryant Voigt
In my sister's dream about the war
the animals had clearly human expressions
of grief and dread, maybe they were people
wearing animal bodies, cows at the fence,
hens in their nests. The older dog implored her
at the door, out back, aeroplanes
crossing overhead, she found the young one
motionless on the grass, open-eyed,
left leg bitten off, the meat and muscles
stripped back neatly from the jagged bone.
For weeks I thought that was my fiance,
the mailbox was a shrine. I bargained with
the little god inside--I didn't know
it was us she saw in the bloody trenches.
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