Since its Thursday, do yoga series 5; check Amazon deliveries; weed the lettuce; check the on-line medication order.

Listen to news. How many newly dead in the state? in the nation? in the world? Read on-line paper updates, Send donations to Church and to Food Bank.

Since its Thursday, remember Zoom cocktail party with F & V at 5:30. Check level of gin.

Wash hands. Change from singing “Row Your Boat” to “Mary had a Little Lamb.”

Ignore the calendar. Don’t count the days.

Check school district website. Is there a change? If schools are open we want to be there. Research Kawasaki Disease.

Since its Thursday, put on gloves, mask, take car for its weekly drive. Don’t think about the olden days, when drives to restaurants or movies were every day easy.

Buy new hair trimmer; I’m sure it was the trimmer’s fault that J’s hair turned out that way.

Find flour. Buy some on Etsy? Email K for bread recipe. Search for Mother’s recipe. The scent of baking bread evokes stability, safety, security.

Since its Thursday, do Facebook post so the rest of the family knows we’re still alive.

Tell R about dream of trying to attend five different on-line funerals at once.

Check with F. Can she Zoom babysit Sunday afternoon? The kids love to play the game she invented.  R and I need some time together without kids.

Call bank. Check on options for partially paying the mortgage.

See if there’s TV channel for Korean baseball.

Since its Thursday, put out the ballerina costume; I’m going to follow the Australian pandemic tradition and dress up for garbage day. It will be my Bin Isolation Outing.

You watch the bubbles rise

as water boils;

steam haze sways the air.

Place the Oolong leaves

loosely in the gaiwan jar,

pour the water,

slide on cover.

Slip the lid aside.

Strain tea into your cup.

Place your hands around it,

feel its warmth move through your veins.

In this space 

tastes of layered complexity;

all obligations melt.

Scents of buttery lilies, 

honey, roasted nuts

grant pardon.

In the tea’s vapor

grace and absolution mingle.

Time holds her breath.

You could pray like this.

The bell!  I race with the boys, from schoolhouse to ocean’s edge.

Dare you!

Bet you can’t follow!

Now that I’m eight, I’m just old enough 

to be part of this dangerous  game;

to jump from pan to pan of ice.

Last year I watched the boys jump, push, wobble on the ice.

Now I cross my fingers.

Can I keep up?

Spring breezes have transformed the solid ice.

What had been frozen enough to drive wagons across is now

islands and continents, breaking up, jostling together. 

The frigid ocean lurks beneath,

his dark undulation hidden 

as he flexes his power to dominate.

Large pans of salt-water ice smash together with 

devious twins of slob: fragments of ice compressed

by the heaving sea – like flies in treacle.

Jack, the strongest of our boys, races off the shore, jumps on a pan. 

It sinks under his weight, his sealskin boots dip in the ocean.

Then he jumps to another rocking clumper; the rest of us follow,

me, hesitant, the tail’s end. I see Jack

dodge the spaces deep with crushed ice and snow slush;

it looks like ghost’s porridge. 

Carefully I follow the moves of Pete in front.

I can’t embarrass myself by not keeping up.

I jump, shout, dare the ocean.

We are young gods; we are conquerors!

Then – ocean is around me, bottomless, everywhere.

I had known the ice was solid – but it isn’t.

My feet sink.

I feel the frigid water on my ankles, filling my boots. 

My legs flail in the water, then, waist-deep I touch firm ice.

With a jump I make it to a solid pan. 

Shaking, I pause for breath, kneel at the edge.

I almost –  I could have  – .

I had been so sure – .

I look into the eyes of the ocean.  

He looks at me, ensnares me.

In his eyes, eternity. 

My life till now has been a question,

and this is the answer.

Jam in the crock; amber, sun-imbued,

testament to life exultant;

sacrament of the breakfast table.

Bakeapples from Labrador, bought at dockside.

Tartness fused with comfort in the boiling jam pot;

jars tossed by the rough seas, 

secreted in the hold between supple seal skins, 

ruddy salmon, silver ovals of cod.

On the berries, finger prints of the seal fisher

who sought, in the polar desert’s stark, vast  expanse,

tiny droplets of gold; blackberry cousin, cold-gilded. 

Serenaded by Northern Lights;

nurtured by polar wind; at peace with long winters.

Quiet witness, life can abound in the harshest of homes.

Filled with artic sunshine,

the substance of remembered flowers,

sweetness from the polar tundra.

Dollop of jam on homemade bread:

a taste of everything lost;

the honeyed poignancy of everything found.

The deer in the village are angry;

all is out of kilter, wrong.

They remember whispers

of unfettered woodlands,

spreads of blackberries, salmonberries, 

wild apple groves, underbrush for shelter

when the rain turns cold.

They stare into each other’s eyes;

no, there was no mention 

of small dogs, boys with sticks,

small lights like miniature suns 

to invade their night..

The deer in the village are angry,

And they’re not sure

they’re going to 

hang around.

Alive to the

Bounty of Being,

Cats, crows, cows, chickens and crabs,

Dogs, deer, donkeys and dragonflies –

Everyone dancing to the unseen music

From the golden heart of the earth.

Gaia, all-mother,

Hums the uniqueness of each

Instant of life.

Joy bubbles the air,

Kindness touches softly.

Life in this

Moment is what matters.

Nothing before

Or nothing after is worthy of thought.

Put aside judgement. Embrace the 

Quixotic. Be

Radically open.

Swoon in 

The

Unprecedented

Vibrancy of this moment.

Wonder, delight in Now, this

Xanthically

Yellow, saffron-gilded life at its

Zenith.

I dreamt of a knight in the night,

noble and handsome and fine.

I think that I’ve met Mr. Right.

His armor gleams ― wonderful sight.

Lips of crimson say he’s mine.

Yes, I dreamt of my knight in the night.

His arms embrace, fill with delight.

We smile, lift our glasses of wine.

I’m thinking he’s my Mr. Right.

His linen shirt is flowing white;

when he gazes at me, his eyes shine.

My wonderful knight, Mr. Right.

As I open his shirt he takes flight.

He’s not for me; our stars don’t align.

Although I’d dreamt of this knight in the night,

he’s Mr. Wrong; and I’m alright.

I was so gratified by this piece. It felt like I was fully able to use the skills of shading being taught. It was also a great experience in the Loose style where I was able to let go of trying to force the piece.

To date, this is my favorite floral watercolor, and not just because purple is my favorite color, but because it truly did unfold naturally and still gives me great pleasure to look at.