We lived happily

Today the words of Ilya Kaminsky are running through my mind. I was fortunate to get to her both him and his wife speak at a poetry event a couple of years ago. His collection Deaf Republic is chilling.

We Lived Happily During the War

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

 

protested

but not enough, we opposed them but not

 

enough. I was

in my bed, around my bed America

 

was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house.

 

I took a chair outside and watched the sun.

 

In the sixth month

of a disastrous reign in the house of money

 

in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money,

our great country of money, we (forgive us)

 

lived happily during the war.

It is a beautiful spring. And the world should be celebrating it together.

It doesn't feel insignificant that February 17th marked the first day of the Chinese/Lunar New Year, Ramadan, and Lent. It's a beautiful time of the year. It doesn't feel insignificant that Iranians are mourning their children during Ramadan and that Israelis are celebrating Purim in bomb shelters. It's a dreadful time in the world. 

I can't say that I'm a little relieved my professor's dog died this morning. So class was cancelled. So she can process things. 

So we all can process things. 

Forgive us, we took a walk.

Forgive the birds their incessantly cheerful song,

 
the flowers know not what their narcissistic petals
shun—

winter's monochrome,
cold war, 

or hot,

forget me/love
me/not.

Where do their ever-failing hands throw

their short-lived torch? Divided,
they thrive. Together

they weary, lose sight, become

blind.

I don't know where that's going, other than that I'm thinking about how to thrive, you need to separate the daffodils, let their roots breathe, reroot away from the tangled mass of what was, dig into a new patch of ground. 

And how it's unfair that spring is so beautiful. Nowruz is coming up, you know. 

And spring should be beautiful. And it is. And it isn't.

*****

We found this wasp gall on the ground while we were walking. Miriam asked why it's called a gall. 

"Does it taste like vinegar?" she wondered (about vinegar/gall being offered to Jesus on the cross). 

So Phoebe immediately licked it. It just tastes like tree.

This gall comes from latin, meaning precisely this kind of lump on a tree.

Phoebe was very impressed by all the many blossoms on the trees today. "It's so beautiful!"

As quick as Phoebe was to lick the wasp gall (tastes just like tree), she was less enthusiastic about trying other things. Miriam found some wood sorrel popping up in the lawn.

"Here," she said, picking some and offering it to Phoebe. "Try this!"

Phoebe looked at Miriam with skepticism.

Miriam: It’s wood sorrel. 

Phoebe: 🤨

Miriam: It tastes like lemon. 

Phoebe: 🤨

Miriam: Try it. 

Phoebe: 🤨

Miriam: …

Phoebe: 🤨

Miriam: …

Phoebe: Is it poisonous?
Miriam: [laughter]
Phoebe: Mom...is this plant edible?

I assured her that it was, but that she was smart to verify with a trusted adult (which Miriam apparently is not), and that she should always make sure to verify with a trusted adult whether a plant she finds in the wild is edible before she tries it. 

She tried the wood sorrel. 

She liked it. 

And Miriam and I laughed the whole way home about how Phoebe was 75% certain Miriam was plotting to poison her...