Hate and Happiness, Books, Dogs, Gardens

As Popeye always said, "I yam what I yam."

Does somebody out there hate me? Really?

 

Even good friends sometimes forget that I moderate comments on my blog, and they can be frustrated when what they wrote does not appear immediately. I remind them that their comment will show as soon as I hit that little ‘publish’ command. 

 

What does not get my thumbs up is spam in comment disguise, such as, “Gee, this content is really interesting,” with a link to whatever business the spammer (probably a bot rather than a person most of the time) is trying to promote, which can be anything from crypto-“currency” to Caribbean vacations to—well, you get the point. 

 

The other day, though, something really weird showed up. It came from “Anonymous,” who is a frequent commenter, but this time the comment consisted of a single repeated word, in full caps—“DIE DIE DIE,” etc., repeated over two dozen times per line for twenty lines. Such is the strangeness of our world today that I wasn’t even shocked or upset. Way too many scarier things to worry about these days. I am, however, mildly curious. 

 

Did a real person leave this message? If so, was it someone who knows me? A stranger? A regular reader of Books in Northport? Someone who has been in my shop? Or was it not a person at all?

 

Long story shortened here: I marked it as spam and deleted it, and unless I get a confession from a verified human being, I'm going to believe that it was spam—from a IA bot!

"Don't chew on it, Mom." "I won't, Sunny."

 

Happier stuff

But Wednesday was a happy day for me at Dog Ears Books. Although the weather had turned cold again, my heart was warmed by the arrival of the first half of my latest new book order, which included a stack of Lynne Rae Perkins’s latest title. Hooray!!! The publisher (Greenwillow) says At Home in a Faraway Place is for ages 8 to 12, or children in grades 4 through 6, but my personal opinion, as a reader and a bookseller, is that this book, as is true of all books from LRP, is for all ages. I would certainly not want to miss the story myself, though I passed my 12^th birthday—let's just say, a while ago. 

"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” I chortle in my joy.

The box delivered on Wednesday by Ted the UPS man also contained a happy assortment for little ones just being introduced to the wonderful world of books, and the sun even broke through as I was arranging them for a group photo. 

And with MICHIGAN THEMES!!!

Other than that—

 

Sunny takes a little break now and then. 

So does the dog mom.

My life has been the usual round of bookshop, reading, and dog play, with unaccustomed bits of housework (floor scrubbing) and seasonal yard tasks (raking and moving plants to make way for a hardscape renovation, i.e., new boardwalk entrance path to house.

No, I am not doing this work myself!

We had a few days that felt like spring, a short power outage (see previous post), and now the forecast holds the probability of snow again for the first day of spring. But it is, I repeat, a spring snow, not the return of winter, as we transition from snow and ice to mud, mudlicious mud!

 

 

And now, spring break

 

Northport School will be on spring break next week, March 24 to 28; however, after 48 hours spent considering a cross-country trip, I decided there is too much that needs doing at home and in my shop, so Dog Ears Books will be open next week. I may adjust my hours, say, from noon to 4 p.m., but I will be here Wednesday through Saturday, as usual.

P.S. I LOVE Lynne Rae's new book!!!

And HAPPY SPRING, everyone!!!

Please forgive me for going on and on about this.

Call this a spoonful of sugar.
 

Someone who read my previous blog post said that current political conflicts are nothing new and that they are “nothing that a simple healing patch of behavior can end.” Whoever suggested the divisions in our country could be ended with a Bandaid? Not I. There is no magic pill or, God forbid, silver bullet, either.

 

The hate-filled divisions are real and heartbreaking. The cruelty is heartbreaking. And yes, the seeds of division and hate have always been there, from the beginning of our history, and – let’s admit it – there is no way for all Americans to come together completely and permanently. 

Storm clouds!

Where does that leave us, though? Having faced that reality, what are our choices? What do we do now? 

 

- Continue to scream at each other and escalate the domestic arms race – until what happens? 

 

- Or give up and retreat into bitterness, each of us, for the rest of our lives? 

 

Please forgive me if I reject those as viable options. 

 

Let’s me make the question personal for myself. Who am I going to be for the remainder of my life on earth? Do I want, while alive, to add to the world’s storehouse of love or to its arsenal of hate? Will I be grateful for my life or choose to be miserable and blame my misery on evolution and world history? Take the most selfish view possible, if you like: As far as I see, it points in the same direction as altruism. 

Both sides now --

This morning (still dark, these long mornings of autumn’s waning daylight, and I am in the autumn of my life, too, my time growing ever shorter), it occurred to me that America’s present crisis is deepened, if not entirely driven, by grief. We have all experienced loss, and it hurts, and we don’t know what to do with that pain. Readers of this blog, as well as my close friends, know that personal grief has been with me for a while now. Grief. Shock. Paralysis. Disbelief. Mourning. Life torn apart, never again to be a shining whole, the companion of my days and nights forever gone. 

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,” wrote the poet Auden in his own grief. He ends his poem with, “For nothing now can ever come to any good.” Is that what you feel about your country? The world? Your life? 

 

(Had Auden been wrong, as he writes in this poem, to think that love would last forever? What do you think?)

 

For myself, I can’t afford to let myself feel that “nothing now can ever come to any good.” Two seven-year-old boys, great-grandsons of the man I loved, are at the beginning of their lives, as are so many little children whose lives are only now beginning. It’s too big a job, yes – I can’t control the course of the future, true – but I can’t give up and crawl into a hole and die, either.

I live in a beautiful place.

I realize that I am a lucky woman, spared the anger that many people suffer in the throes of grief. My husband was 85 years old and had followed his passion and found success as an artist. The beauty of his work lives on. The two of us had a second chance to make a rich life together, to make our dreams come true, even (priceless gift!) to grow old together. And at the end, we had time to say goodbye. So Fate spared me anger and resentment and gave me gratitude, and I am grateful to have had that through the grief his death brought. 

 

But despair? Heavens, yes! Grief goes on and on, and despair, while it doesn’t fill every hour, lurks around every corner, ready always (especially in those first, early, dark hours of morning) to jeer sarcastically, “What’s the point? Why bother? He is never coming back!” And that, my friends, is hard.

 

Like a wounded animal, I needed to be alone before I could face the world again, and I still need time alone even now, but already in those first weeks a demanding puppy did not allow me to stay in bed with my head under the covers, and once back in Michigan there was my bookstore to open, David’s gallery to arrange, grass to mow, the puppy to exercise and train. Looking back at May 2022 from October 2023, I see now that it was good for me not to have available the escape of total isolation.

 

Anger. Despair. Pain. What about exhaustion? Grief is exhausting. So much of life can be exhausting! The ongoing crisis mode of American politics is exhausting. So yes, we all need to take time out when we need to, when we can. 

 

And then? What?

Even under cloudy skies, with winter coming --

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes not to give up, to keep living. Whatever it takes not to be cruel, not to be mean, not to seek revenge. A cat to feed, a dog to walk. Grass to mow, books to sell. Books and poems to read and write. Flowers and trees to plant and tend. Other people with their own griefs, who need an understanding listener as they struggle. Whatever it takes. One day, sometimes one hour at a time – which is the only way we ever truly live, anyway.

 

Not simple. Not easy. Often – let me say a challenge. (Let me say challenge rather than a struggle. Though either word is descriptive, I seek strength in choosing my words.) 

 

In every era, certain words get overused and lose their power in daily speech, but consider – amazing, awesome. The gift of life is one none of us had to earn. Human beings did not invent or build this glorious planet. Who, reflecting on the gift of life, can see it as anything less than amazing? Who, looking at the beauty and force and age of the universe, can see it as otherwise than awesome?

Unquenchable life!

Let me end today with an idea from my most-beloved philosopher, Henri Bergson. (Here is an interesting take on Bergson that I hadn’t read before but found congenial.) One of Bergson’s most basic and important insights was this: 

 

The “road ahead” (the future) is not there. 

We build our road as we travel through life.

 

My images today are from the world around me. Thanks for reading.

Always renewing.