The 'rona got me + looking ahead to spring gardens

After an evening out with a friend on Friday night, I woke early on Saturday and left for a solo 30-hour getaway in WV. Life has not been, shall we say, easy of late, and I was joyful about some quiet time with my animals and land. Halfway there, I started coughing. My chest burned as if its linings had been doused with the shittiest whisky. By 10:20a, I’d texted Tom to say that I felt truly awful and must have caught the cold that felled Jack on Wednesday. Why I didn’t think to test either him or myself is beyond me, but whatever.

The congestion revved up, my skin and teeth started to hurt, and I felt totally enervated.

Was it the two gimlets + wine? I’m no spring chicken anymore, so maybe.

I woke up Sunday not much improved and grudgingly headed home in the early afternoon. On the drive, something kicked in. I called T and he had a test waiting for me.

After all this damn time. Jack tested- positive too, though definitely a good four days ahead of me. He has felt really awful, so his double line was not a surprise result. Masks were donned, I took to the guest room, and here we are. Jack tested negative yesterday so is finally back at school with mask firmly in place. He feels better, but not good.

I still feel like roadkill, y’all. I have zero sense of smell or taste beyond what I can only describe as feeling that I burned my tongue and then licked pennies for several hours; the congestion was EPIC though that has subsided; the cough has been so severe that I have aching stomach muscles (core work! #silverlining) and have coughed up not an insignificant amount of unsightly phlegm curds; my throat is unbelievably sore such that it hurts to swallow; and I just feel tired and vague.

The acute feeling of “I am really effing sick” is gone, but yesterday I took 89 steps. Today, my step counter hasn’t even registered. All this after two initial vaccines and two subsequent boosters. I don’t even want to contemplate getting this in the absence of those mitigating factors.

I’ve done some reading (harder than you might imagine) and some student work and managed to make a large and thrilling-to-me gardening spreadsheet of all the seeds, bare root, and potted seedlings I’ve bought or are on order for spring arrival; full of all relevant info like preferred sun exposure and soil, height, animals repelled and attracted, intended planting location, and so forth, it also enables me to input and track when I started what seeds, when I upgraded their pot sizes, and when I ultimately get them into the ground or container.

So far, my wallflower seeds, both English and Fair Lady, are winning the sprouting race. Slow the train, little buddies. After just eight days I had to move their peat pots into a larger, non-covered pot because they were hitting the plastic cover of my Jiffy tray. The snapdragons and Billy buttons are up too, and I spy the rock cress and creeping thyme making their way. Part of my basement looks like a weed lab, what with pots and grow lights wired up everywhere, but it all brings me great joy, and my family kindly (and with some lovely eye rolls) alerts me when “another package from Eden Brothers arrived.” Listen, they have great seeds.

Anyway, I have showered today but that’s it. Ruthie came for a quick visit, but as per Ruthie, she’s gone again. I’m gonna finish my coffee, send vibes of love and strength to Tyre Nichols’ family while also fully understanding if they can feel nothing but grief and rage over the murder of their boy, send evil thoughts to College Board for bowing to performative GOP pressure and stripping their AP African American history course of, well, African American history, and feel thankful for science and medicine and little peat pots and the always earnest determination of nature and life.

From left: wallflowers at 4 days; snapdragons at 6.

Wonderful places to donate on behalf of animals

Throughout the year, we strive to share generously with organizations that work to combat poverty, homelessness, anti-women sentiments, and psychotic conservatism and Christian nationalism. But, in my opinion, how we treat non-humans is as important; animals are, against humans, defenseless creatures. By and large they are enormously sentient, gentle, stoic beings from whom we can and should learn much. They weather hardship and pain with fortitude, they are full of grace and grit, and when treated with love they respond in kind with distinct personalities. I hope one day to have an animal sanctuary of my own, to welcome one and all creature great and small.

Just today, while attempting to rid a pasture of shiso (invasive horror; never plant or allow it near you), I snuggled every goat and cat who wanted said snuggle, and when Rambo lay in a sunny pile of leaves for an afternoon respite, I joined him, resting my head on his belly, my arm around his neck, scratching at his lead. It was a wonderful moment.

As I do most Decembers, I have given almost all of my paychecks to animal welfare organizations, and I share them with you here in case you are inclined towards a last-minute gift that will be wholly and thankfully utilized.

1. Farm Sanctuary: incredible group that rescues, advocates, and educates farm animals like cows, goats, pigs, and sheep. You can donate generally or “adopt” one of their animals. You cannot go wrong in supporting FS, and right now, there is a 100% match going on.

2. Cats on Mars: Eugene Kibets is single-handedly saving thousands of cats in Ukraine. He climbs ladders into bombed-out buildings, rescues orphaned pets and ferals, gets every being the medical treatment it needs, and is cool as get out. He’ll drive clear across Ukraine to save any cat and does on the regular. Support via Patreon (I do) and/or via his PayPal (I also do this): catsonmars.ukraine@gmail.com. It’s legit.

3. Niall Harbison is an Irish emigre in Thailand dedicated to loving and supporting in all ways the country’s many street dogs. Today, for example, he cooked a full Christmas dinner for more than 100 dogs, and he spends thousands a month on medical care for sick babes. His donorbox is legit.

4. Berkeley Humane: one of many humane societies doing work that I would consider godly were I believer. One of my best college friends is a board member, and they (in CA) put all donations to their cats’ and dogs’ needs.

5. Closer to home, in my WV county, Berkeley County Humane. This is not a wealthy area, and they are doing crucial work on a shoestring. Please consider supporting the poorest of animals, too.

Thank you so very much.

Brittle

I feel brittle these days, a discomfiting awareness of angles and haste and chill. Each time I sit down to write, I freeze, erase, and leave. This is never a good sign, this drying up. Some of it is busyness, surely. Between holidays, teacher days, and illness, neither J nor O has had much in the way of full weeks of school since September. I need space and can’t seem to get it.

Parenting is a motherfucking bear. It is hard and relentless and it’s really easy to fuck up, and sometimes I just want to wash my hands of the enterprise. Yes, yes, yes, it’s wonderful and all that jazz, but the daily slog of thanklessness and question marks and laundry and limits is and feels mammoth.

I daydream often and in a deeply soulful way, of land and horizons that are away and vast. To space and slowness and kindness and quiet. To muddy Wellies and reinforced overalls and great gusts of wind.

Daily, I feel half here, half elsewhere.

I want to get off this hamster wheel and away from arrogant billionaires and lying terrors who are never held accountable and too much least-common-denominator behavior. I saw a headline recently about how worrisome it is that people are spending so much time alone, and I get the concern, yet I want to yell, “are you fucking kidding? Have you looked around and/or been in public lately?” There is only so much ugliness people can witness and take, both personally and societally, and shit, I understand the desire to hermit.

I want to have the time to feel bored. To make things, to finish a book, a lengthy thought.

I have a deeply-rooted sneaking suspicion that the world is on some epic, crucial fulcrum. You can keep Jonesing, struggle, or opt out. I prefer C.

When I was little, I wore dresses that twirled and I did not like to be dirty. I also did not like to be wet unless I chose to be wet, via shower, pool, or opted-into slip-n-slide. I woke up early to shower and style my hair, you would not have found me gardening.

And then, as life goes, and then just like Nanny always said, “you can bury your troubles in the garden.” And I’m in the dirt as often as possible, working quietly and trying to make space to hear the quiet inside voice that gets ignored on the regular.

I don’t think that I expected, when I was young, to change so much during life. But I have changed, in many ways. Maybe that’s what middle age is about: coming to terms with and choosing how to honor who you were, are, and may still become.

Anyway, this blog doesn’t seem particularly “good,” but at least it’s something, I suppose. Buon weekend, all.