Settling In Gently by R.A.Davis

So we lived on an experimental ag station and there were all these crazy stories about the poison they dumped out into the soil up there-- whole outbuildings that the older workers were like, uhhhhh, I wouldn't walk over there. And definitely don't let your kids go over there. And maybe don't eat the fruit from the trees that grow there. But, you do you. It stressed me out. But it was practically free housing on Kauai, on a 100 acre farm where I could see 20 waterfalls on the face of Waialeale every morning from my (crumbling) front steps. So that's where we lived. And if that contributed to my two Kauai-born kids' later freaky auto-immune disorders... well, fuck. I don't know.  So now we no longer live on an experimental farm where we know the terrifying history of pesticide and herbicide-- we live in a suburban subdivision where who knows what the soil has been through? hah hah oh dear. ANYWAY SO We also live in grief-land. And even though this grief is acquir...

Fear: What to do When Someone is Suicidal NOTE: ARE YOU SUICIDAL? THIS IS NOT FOR YOU. CALL 988 RIGHT THIS SECOND.  Are you afraid someone close to you suicidal? Read on. This post is for people who are afraid their husband/wife/kid/parent/friend/roommate/family member is going to kill themselves.  IF YOUR PERSON IS IN CRISIS THIS SECOND, CALL 988 FOR THE SUICIDE HELPLINE. CALL 911 AND ASK FOR A WELLNESS CHECK FOR YOUR PERSON. They can connect you to whatever local resources are available.  Okay story time.    So on the 4th of July, a couple of dads in our cul de sac went ALL out. We put our folding chairs on the driveway and lit our tiny sparklers and sat back to enjoy the show. My neighbor-bestie (I shall call her T) took one look at the other neighbors’ DIY Cul-De-Sac of Fire Rocket extravaganza and said, “I hate fireworks!! I know it’s stupid, but I always think they’re going to burn down my house! Sorry!! I know I’m being paranoid, but I just can’t!!” And s...

My kids are getting big. I have evidence for this: today, I decided to make a pot of tea, put some cookies on a plate, and read a book. I got all cozy on the broken (comfiest) part of the couch, put a quilt on my lap, and started to read. And, like cats, the kids quietly gathered. Makani had volume one of Heaven official's blessing-- I silently cheers-ed him with my book, since I was reading volume four. He cheersed back solemnly, and settled into the squashy chair with his tea. Maile appeared and settled next to me to read the I-Ching, and then sat on the carpet, casting oracles with three coins. Yin, Yang, like binary code, conjuring scraps of poetry and fortunetelling. Liko, not to be out-classed, helped herself to tea and cookies (rejected my strawberry kit-kat, thank goodness), and read Junie B Jones And The Stupid Smelly Bus, which is her very first chapter book. The lights were on the christmas tree, the cat curled her tail around her neat toes and blinked at us, the wind ...

  Well. Here we are. The computer screen is bleary as I type. My right eye doesn’t blink so I have to anoint it with thick goo. My open eyeball stubbornly faces the muzzle of the eye-gel, watches the distended drop descend. Never have my eyes been so brave. Amazing what paralysis does. I watch the drop fall onto my vision and then I pinch my eyelid together with my fingers to mimic a blink. My eye doesn’t care. It stares me down even as I try to tape it closed or cover it with an eyepatch. It just stares stubbornly into the dark. My eyelid does twitch, though. A little hitch of involuntary movement, like a dead frog kicking under the knife. Makes sense, those amphibious nerves have died. If “Died” is too dramatic a word, then -- they have been amputated. Pinched off and killed like a lizard’s tail.  My right ear is… strange. Imparied. As though I’m listening to the world from under the water. As if all of the sounds are flattened to be at the same level of intensity/volume/for...

First, things are fine. Everyone is healthy and alive, and mid-pandemic, that is not something to take for granted.  Second, grief is an unfolding thing-- like a comically long devil's contract unspooling across the carpet-- you never signed it but are stuck with anyway, smeary black ink and a bloody handprint sealing the deal. And I'm mulling that over and want to chew on my thoughts, here, longform, in bloggerspace. It's a cliche that there are stages of grief. It's a given, a known, almost a punchline. In graphics describing the stages, they are as neat and orderly as a flow chart. First Denial that morphs into Anger, as you shake your fist at God. Then you beg and Bargain. But nothing changes-- God's face is impassive. You sink into the miserable, neverending reality of it in stage Depression, and then eventually you wash your face, and emerge bigger and better, sadder maybe, but wiser into the stage of Acceptance. Something about this tidy taxonomy makes me gri...