Letters to Tuvia Y3/#sol18 3/15: Ides of March, of Course

Evening T and Slicers,

It was a long day for me.  My trio of teachers stepped up for me: 8:30 Am Hebrew on Line with Rivka- we are reading excerpts about  a neighborhood in Jerusalem where many street cats become home cats because a young, devoted couple take them off the streets. I hate cats in general but it’s great to learn Hebrew through heartfelt stories and  with a teacher who is has heart and patience.

A break  for breakfast and Jon arrives for my guitar lesson and all I have to do is move from the couch to my guitar chair and of course play. We are focusing attention on the set of pieces to prepare for a recital coming in early Fall maybe. Want an invite?

And then, before I take my car in for its 15,000 check up, I have time to prepare my slides for my grieving workshop tomorrow.  That’s hard, harder than I thought it would be.  Lots of pictures to go through and my early letters to you. But tomorrow I will be supportive and nurturing. I will  be out of myself.  A good thing!

Finally,  tonight is Pottery Class #8. We missed last week due to a power outage  from Nor-easter #2 and with that space of 2 weeks I was a bit lost and distracted.

But I have a third  teacher. who found my fired pot that I had been searching for for at least 20 minutes.  He found it in 2 minutes and then brought it to me gently that there were serious cracks in the pot I loved best- but no worries, he used me to glaze it. I did. I glazed two and trimmed three others with his special support.

I’m sure, in time, these early creations will move to a cupboard, far away from eye sight but for now, they get center stage, just like my art creations got from my parents in the early days of me.

I just read this poem that I’ll be using tomorrow.  It’s good, don’t you think?


The Thing Is

Ellen Bass

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you’ve held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.


Good thing that after a full day of grief work tomorrow, I’ll head home, chill out for an hour, get back in my car, head for a play in NYC with Chris C. and hopefully not nap in the theater.

Miss you,

Bonnie S.

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