…And full of prayers in tatters in the wind. So many. O Mother Mary pray for us now and in the hour of our need.
An atmospheric river of rain is predicted. 10 inches of rain. A blizzard of rain. And the wind took out the power twice already. Once when we were sleeping. Once when we were awake. The local radio is still out, so I tuned into Juneau on the internet and worried about my children and grandchildren there after hearing that they have both flood and high wind warnings. The snow level will rise to 5,000 feet, melting November’s snowpack. Watch for mudslides and falling trees. Stay out of upstairs rooms. Don’t walk in the woods. Check your boats and floatplanes. Make a plan in case you have to leave home or work in a hurry. That, and 57 active cases of Covid 19 in the capital city, less than a hundred miles south, but no planes or ferries will connect us today.
There is a ping. It’s a link to a story about routines and how important they are.
“R U on your bike? You have excellent routines,” my friend texts.
Chip is working out, but I am not. I’m on the floor with a heating pad on my back and my legs on a chair.
“No. My back hurts… Do you have KHNS? Ours is out. I’m listening to KTOO,” I type into my phone and wonder if this counts as writing. I am working on returning to a regular writing routine. I have fallen out of practice with all the Zoom book talks.
“Do you think you need an X-ray? No KHNS is out.”
It’s nice to have a friend at six am. And my canine nurse Trixie. Even though she has issues with personal space and is breathing in my face.
We slip texts through the lyric time delays between questions and answers on the screen, flying though the two miles of wind and rain that separate our warm living rooms. Two campers with our tin cans and string. She is on the couch with a headache.
“Today probably isn’t the day to stick to routine,” I type.”Especially since I have back cancer and you have a brain tumor. Might as well pour whiskey in the coffee.”
“Got a laugh out loud from me.”
I startle Trixie and Pearl with my own hooting snort.
Then we tack in a new direction, toward what to watch on Netflix and the benefits of cream in coffee and Advil and then she said,
” Hey! In 21 days the daylight hours increase again.”
But that’s not why we are happier now than we were fifteen minutes ago is it?
This is the time of the year when we live with darkness, sit with it, as the yogis and saints say, and reckon with what life means and how well we are living it.
“I like it,” I text her. This mostly dark, waiting out the stormy weather time.
And I love the little lights that she gave me last year, twinkling in my windows. They run on batteries, and stay on when everything else goes out.
