Dew Drops and Tear Drops

I used to be a night owl before the pandemic. Going to bed at 3 AM was not unusual and a throwback to my working days…or I should say working nights. I did a lot of writing after midnight and I like the quietness of the neighborhood when everyone is tucked into their beds. No little kids dominating the sidewalks, no barking dogs. No lawn mowers or snow blowers filling the airwaves. You learn a lot about your neighbors in the middle of the night. The young couple across the street, for example, are afraid of the night. They leave their porch light on from dusk to dawn. The neighbors next door are very trusting. They leave their garage door up all night, confident no one will come along to steal the guy’s fancy tools and medieval gear---they run renaissance festivals across three-four states. And, yes, I’ve seen more than a couple of sword fights out my bedroom window. They’re interesting people and if you want to weave your own fabric, spin your own yarn or make your own chainmail, they’re your go-to couple. 

When the pandemic first started I couldn’t fall asleep and when I did I’d wake up an hour or so later then worry would take over my mind and not let go. So I got into the habit of taking sleeping pills and sometimes even that didn’t work. Long story short now I’m falling asleep at midnight and waking up at seven and I’ve almost weaned myself from taking the Ambien bottle out of the drawer except on full moon night which is why it was prescribed in the first place. Seven o’clock in the morning has a lot in common with the middle of the night. For the first hour anyway and I have to admit it’s a pretty time of the day. The dew on the lawn before the sun tops the trees to burn it off is the stuff poets write about. 

"How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity

under roses and violets and morning dew!"

Ralph Waldo Emerson

 “Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”

Rabindranath Tagore

When I was in my twenties I wanted to be poet when I grew up. I never felt like a grown up until my husband had his stroke. I had adult responsibilities—the job, the house, the car---but not having kids made me feel like a kid looking for the next great learning experience as I waited for my ‘real’ life to begin. I can’t say I didn’t go through a mourning period for what never happened, but it was short lived on the missing parenthood front. Of course, the dream of being a poet had no medical excuse holding me back. I held on to that dream a lot longer although now I acknowledge if I have any writing talent at all it’s not in the poetry genre. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe as Lord Byron once hinted at, maybe I can make my wordsmithing mark without having to rhyme. 

"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,

Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces

That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think."

We might not all want to reach thousands with our words but the desire to communicate with our fellow man, to be understood and to understand others, is rooted in our prehistoric past. How exciting it must have been to develop a language when there was none. I visualize a caveman grunting out the word ‘hunt’ and being understood for the first time like Helen Keller at the well when she first made the connection between the letters w-a-t-e-r being spelled out on her hand to the water running through her fingers. As she wrote in her autobiography years later, “That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free! There were barriers still, it is true, but barriers that could in time be swept away."  

If you’ve read the introduction at the top of this blog you know my husband lost his ability to speak and write after his stroke. When you lose that connection with someone you love you mourn a part of your relationship. Family caregivers know all too well you let go in stages until the final moment comes and you mourn one last time. I went to the cemetery to visit my husband’s grave this week. The pandemic lock-down prevented me from going in April when I’d normally go to dig up the quackgrass around the stone and for the first time ever, I sat in my car crying. I cried for him. I cried for me. I cried for the whole bloody world. I cried like I haven’t cried since 1983 when my mother died. And I cried because I really, REALLY wanted a Little Miss Debbie Swiss Cake Roll to fill the emptiness I felt. ©

Ordered this tee shirt the next day, figured I needed the reminder. Thanks to the Boomer Girl's Guide blog for the link.