I started drafting this post less than two weeks ago, really burned out over COVID-19 yet not quite ready to re-enter the brave new world. I was pondering what to write. Seems pandemics can cause a lack of focus. Not to fear, though, I got an idea. It began with using words for therapy. It ended with my seeing color more clearly than I have for some time now.
When I was younger, I used to write Haiku, an ancient form of Japanese poetry often related to nature or the seasons. Its simplified American version is to structure a three-line verse, with a five/seven/five syllable pattern. No rhyme needed. Punctuation and capitalization is up to the poet. What’s not to like, right?
So pardon my bad poetry, but writing these made me feel good.
Eastern redbud, grow.
Big as the long-dead cherry.
Grant us living shade.
*
Regal hydrangea.
Not pink or blue, but purple.
I like you the best.
*
I’m not a clepto.
Storm-felled street signs tempt me, though.
Landscape’s their reward.
*
Haiku got me outside, helped me remember the world has beauty, made me take time to really see nature’s colors.
Then came May 19. The world turned gray again. Crazy rains and broken dams wreaked havoc in my home state of Michigan. My sister and her husband canoed away from their riverfront home, unsure what would be left when they returned to Saginaw. Less than an hour away, friends evacuated their home on Lake Wixom, breaking quarantine to take refuge elsewhere. Their daughter was affected by the floods, too, and continues to oversee relief efforts in the nearby village of Sanford, which was decimated.
Disasters, like pandemics, cause pain. They affect concentration. Not to be thwarted, I turned to writing a longer Haiku, or Tanka. Its five/seven/five/seven/seven syllable pattern can be more serious and cynical than traditional Haiku, which seemed apt.
The Tanka below is for my Michigan.
Sometimes what we love
Also causes grief and pain.
Michigan, your lakes
Touched my childhood and my soul.
Your floods have broken my heart.
*
Then my friend Joel died, and gray became grayer. I had one of those screw-it—no-wait-hang-in-there—it’ll-all-be-okay moments. Joel didn’t die from COVID, but his health was compromised. I wear a mask for those at risk, like Joel, so in a way, this one’s for him.
Face mask, go to hell!
That is what I’d like to say.
But I bind it on.
Air-sucking. Laugh-inducing.
Worn for others; not for me.
*
And then George Floyd died. Justice was slow in coming, and the riots started.
I voiced the following opinion: “I don’t condone the violence, but I understand the rage.”
Several of my white friends just shook their heads at that. Their reactions made me—correction, I let them make me—feel wrong. Should I take my statement back? Or try harder to help them understand? I was, after all, raised with Midwestern sensibilities: Make nice. Try to see all sides. Don’t rock the boat, especially if it’s a political one.
Well, like it or not, this one’s political. The current political climate isn’t healthy. And I’m tired. So this one’s for Mr. Floyd.
Have you ever felt
Calm? Then someone riles you up.
Shame on politicians’ rants.
Negative thoughts. Outright lies.
Hate spreads easier than love.
*
Yup, I’m tired. Tired of being silenced—correction, of letting myself be silenced. How can I write about issues that matter if I’m always worried that oh, no, wait, I might upset someone I’ve cared about for eons?
When I silence myself, I remain unheard. When I feel unheard, it can lead to rage. To that extent, I can understand the rioters’ feeling of rage. Which in a roundabout way leads me back to color. Specifically, Black.
No, I’m not Black, and yes, that makes me privileged. I have friends of color, and I ask them to cuff me on the side of the head when I say things that are insensitive or off the mark in this regard. Lucky for me, they’re patient. (And I have a strong head.) They’ve taken time to explain that I’m not privileged because my life is perfect, but because my life isn’t valued differently because of my skin tone.
They’ve helped me understand that the phrase “I don’t see color” is not a compliment. If I don’t see color, then I don’t have to acknowledge racial disparities. If I don’t see color, then I don’t have to try to understand systemic racism.
It’s all there. In black and white, sure. But also in a big fat kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes it hurts to look and examine things closely, but I’m doing it.
I’m starting to see color once again. And not just in the garden.
Blessings - J (who's not feeling quite up to bidding you cheers at the moment)
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