Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Sunday, December 16, 2007
When I wake it is 16 degrees out. I put on a wool, stocking hat knit by Nena five Christmases ago and before Grumps died, mohair mittens knit by Amanda when Aidan was a baby and I wrap my neck in a soft scarf knit by Lee the Christmas before Cole learned to walk.
This is how I stay warm and keep time, wondering how I'd know what happened and when without these things. I negotiate the icy streets of Gloucester making my way to work via the part of Middle Street that is not closed. Though my father-in-law has already given news of the fire, I am shocked when I see the burning temple and burnt apartment building. It's devastating--a life lost, people without homes, this time of year, ice stuck to trees, billowing smoke, skeleton of a synagogue and charred wood that was once an apartment building. I see people weeping in the street and others excitedly spectating because they don't know what else to do. There is a sad, displaced energy on Main Street that makes me wonder out loud: "What can I do?"
I step over soot frozen to bits of thawing ice. I walk around thick hoses lying in the road, careful not to step on them. When I arrive, my coat and scarf and hat smell like smoke--the smoke of loss, of buildings burning in the cold night and early morning, of tears and fear and flame.
I do the best that I can at the store, but all day I am thinking about the people who have been hurt by this fire. Around three I walk home, the fire still going. There is more soot. There is smoke. And when I arrive at the house there is an e-mail. It tells of how she moved from the 90-year old building just two weeks ago after living on the fourth floor for four years. She had been unable to get used to the idea of a fire and no way out, understandably so.
I think about fires and ways out. I think about Dave holding baby Galen and Mac missing Amanda's father and Amanda missing them all.
Quietly out loud I say "I love you" to all of the people I love. I say it again. And then again. I want people to know.
This is how I stay warm and keep time, wondering how I'd know what happened and when without these things. I negotiate the icy streets of Gloucester making my way to work via the part of Middle Street that is not closed. Though my father-in-law has already given news of the fire, I am shocked when I see the burning temple and burnt apartment building. It's devastating--a life lost, people without homes, this time of year, ice stuck to trees, billowing smoke, skeleton of a synagogue and charred wood that was once an apartment building. I see people weeping in the street and others excitedly spectating because they don't know what else to do. There is a sad, displaced energy on Main Street that makes me wonder out loud: "What can I do?"
I step over soot frozen to bits of thawing ice. I walk around thick hoses lying in the road, careful not to step on them. When I arrive, my coat and scarf and hat smell like smoke--the smoke of loss, of buildings burning in the cold night and early morning, of tears and fear and flame.
I do the best that I can at the store, but all day I am thinking about the people who have been hurt by this fire. Around three I walk home, the fire still going. There is more soot. There is smoke. And when I arrive at the house there is an e-mail. It tells of how she moved from the 90-year old building just two weeks ago after living on the fourth floor for four years. She had been unable to get used to the idea of a fire and no way out, understandably so.
I think about fires and ways out. I think about Dave holding baby Galen and Mac missing Amanda's father and Amanda missing them all.
Quietly out loud I say "I love you" to all of the people I love. I say it again. And then again. I want people to know.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Last night I had a dream that I met the children in the photos. They were nothing like their pictures.
I've been dreaming about snow. And snow swirls, the way the wind whips it around into a cloud. Then his voice in a message tells me to mind the snow.
It is a pile of snow, soft and light at first, but turning heavy and wet. It covers me. It covers me again.
By the end of the dream I can see my eyes. Not my mouth, but my eyes.
The snow is light. The snow is heavy. The snow is nothing.
The snow is not as I dreamt it.
I've been dreaming about snow. And snow swirls, the way the wind whips it around into a cloud. Then his voice in a message tells me to mind the snow.
It is a pile of snow, soft and light at first, but turning heavy and wet. It covers me. It covers me again.
By the end of the dream I can see my eyes. Not my mouth, but my eyes.
The snow is light. The snow is heavy. The snow is nothing.
The snow is not as I dreamt it.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Knitting Mormons' Christmas
The Mormons visit yesterday. It has been weeks, months even, our last meeting less than satisfactory for them. There is a new girl with the girl who talks, impressed that I know that Carson City is the capital of Nevada. The girl who talks talks and talks and I miss the other girl, quiet and pleasantly unassuming. I learn that the quiet girl has moved to Vermont and the girl who talks will be going home at the end of this month. This is what makes visiting my house again and again easy for them.
When they knock at the back door I am on my computer paying bills and listening to "The Rebel Jesus" (this is the truth), part of a Mostly Denominational Mix of Christmas tunes that I made at Cole's request. This seems appropriate backdrop to conversation about religious conversions. "Six baptisms," the answer to my question of how many since she's been out. "It's wonderful to be a part of," she gushes. "To see how people change when they discover the love of Christ."
After a few minutes, talk turns to knitting. "We had to return the knitting to Amanda," she says. "We feel bad, but we just don't have time to sit and knit." I think a lot of mean things about the ways they spend their time, but mostly I think, "If I'd had knitting, I might still be Mormon. I'd have had something to do during all that talking."
Knitting didn't save me then, but it's saving me now. And I'm not Mormon and that's a good thing, though it's complicated at this time of year. And difficult. I try to read things like "Burning the Christmas Greens," William Carlos Williams and other poems. I put together collections of Christmas music for my kids because they love this holiday and there's hardly a reason they shouldn't. I try to revel in their joy and their anticipation.
I try to do it all and in doing so I am reduced to a shell of a person. I'm a faker and I'm not fooling anyone, especially myself.
When they knock at the back door I am on my computer paying bills and listening to "The Rebel Jesus" (this is the truth), part of a Mostly Denominational Mix of Christmas tunes that I made at Cole's request. This seems appropriate backdrop to conversation about religious conversions. "Six baptisms," the answer to my question of how many since she's been out. "It's wonderful to be a part of," she gushes. "To see how people change when they discover the love of Christ."
After a few minutes, talk turns to knitting. "We had to return the knitting to Amanda," she says. "We feel bad, but we just don't have time to sit and knit." I think a lot of mean things about the ways they spend their time, but mostly I think, "If I'd had knitting, I might still be Mormon. I'd have had something to do during all that talking."
Knitting didn't save me then, but it's saving me now. And I'm not Mormon and that's a good thing, though it's complicated at this time of year. And difficult. I try to read things like "Burning the Christmas Greens," William Carlos Williams and other poems. I put together collections of Christmas music for my kids because they love this holiday and there's hardly a reason they shouldn't. I try to revel in their joy and their anticipation.
I try to do it all and in doing so I am reduced to a shell of a person. I'm a faker and I'm not fooling anyone, especially myself.
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