One wintry day, long ago, I had the privilege of visiting with a woman I’ll call Rose. Ninety-five years old, she was recovering from a broken hip at the home of her daughter, a good…
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Dear Julie, Thank you for your sweet note concerning my work. Thank you, too, for entrusting me with this question that’s been weighing on your heart: “How does one hold both grief and joy at…
Note: In our last edition of Staying Power, I told a story about how stars had come to be in the night sky. In response, a reader asked me how the daytime sky had come…
Spanish-American chef José Andrés and his nonprofit World Central Kitchen have been on the ground in Ukraine and neighboring countries since war broke out on February 24. They work with partner restaurants, community kitchens, and…
Shortly after midnight, I’m wakened by severe spasms in my belly and gnawing pain in my lower back. Almost at once I recognize the symptoms: kidney stones. I’ve experienced such an attack before. Passing big…
Last night I dreamed about John. John was long married to Julia, my father’s cousin, once removed. “Just a shirt-tail relative,” you might be thinking. But John and Julia happened to live in Goshen, Indiana,…
I The woman wades into the shallow stream. The frigid October water nips the skin of her legs. The gravelly bottom bites the soles of her bare feet. It’s too late in the season for…
This week for Staying Power, I sat down to write one thing, and something totally different came out. (Surprise! Ain’t life grand?) What came out was a poem that imitates “The House That Jack Built,”…
Once, returning from a trip abroad, Jihong brought me the gift of a Russian matryoshka set. At first glance, all you see is a wooden doll, around 7” high. It’s painted to resemble a happy peasant woman, with a city scene on her plump belly.
However, if you lift away the top half of the doll, you find a smaller matryoshka hidden inside—the peasant woman’s daughter. Open that second doll, and you find an even smaller daughter. And then another daughter. Finally, at the center, you come to a baby.
Air-sucker. Heart-breaker. Life-wrecker.
Don’t take it personally, Grief, but under our breath, or deep down inside, we sometimes call you such names. We have as many names for you as for the fallen of 9/11. As for the pandemic dead. As for the people vanished in floods and wildfires. As for our cherished life partners, gone too soon. As for our precious children, ending their lives by suicide ….
This morning, you come downstairs to find me. You greet me in that sunny voice with which you always bless the beginning of my days. Then you slump on the couch beside me. Your youthful…
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