Happy Marching into who knows what's next. To start my day yesterday I moved through my space using Laban's eight efforts to the sounds of The Juju Orchestra, and then I read half of a collection of short stories by George Saunders, Liberation Day. Laundry tumbled in the dryer, then was folded, we went for a walk, groceries were purchased and put away for the week. In short, we had the sort of day we take for granted. The kind I worry are numbered.
This weekend I attended a funeral. I had to switch over my pocketbooks, and in the changeover I went with a bag that had my slide whistle tucked inside one of the compartments. You never know when a slide whistle may be needed. The two hour trip to the funeral was a trip back in time, a homecoming, and all day feeling of deep and abiding love. I cried slide whistle tears most of the day. I ate two of the most delicious pierogie served to me by a classmate of my sister's, talked to my former school bus driver (he's been driving a bus for 49 years!), shared theatre stories with family friends, and heard the most moving love story. I stood in the wind high up on the hill in the cemetery, with my ear covered as the snow spit sideways, wishing I'd worn my winter coat, feeling once again, underprepared, but with a slide whistle.
The funeral felt like a hug from the friend who died. His last words to me when I saw him two weeks ago were, "It's going to be ok." I want to believe him. I'm trying. His ability to make others feel good, to lift others up and build community was so strong it ripples out still after his death.
How can we know anything? We don't. We can't. There's faith. Hope. People doing small acts of good in a world full of muck and mire.
This morning my car won't start. A dead battery. I craned around to see if there were jumper cables in the back seat. Nope. But there's a pool noodle, for keening.
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