Just when I thought my current round of tremors was on the wane, this:


Anyone who works daily at not letting chronic illness rule their lives knows the bittersweet that is the loss of a teapot. Or a lunchdate. Or a [name of unexpected sacrifice here].

RIP Brown Betty.  The pot I brew in may be different, but the ritual you taught me will never change.

2 thoughts on “BATTLE [BARDAGI]

  1. I know tremors and chronic illness were mentioned, but this also reminded me of Pablo Neruda’s poem:

    Ode To Broken Things

    Things get broken
    at home
    like they were pushed
    by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
    It’s not my hands
    or yours
    It wasn’t the girls
    with their hard fingernails
    or the motion of the planet.
    It wasn’t anything or anybody
    It wasn’t the wind
    It wasn’t the orange-colored noontime
    Or night over the earth
    It wasn’t even the nose or the elbow
    Or the hips getting bigger
    or the ankle
    or the air.
    The plate broke, the lamp fell
    All the flower pots tumbled over
    one by one. That pot
    which overflowed with scarlet
    in the middle of October,
    it got tired from all the violets
    and another empty one
    rolled round and round and round
    all through winter
    until it was only the powder
    of a flowerpot,
    a broken memory, shining dust.

    And that clock
    whose sound
    the voice of our lives,
    the secret
    thread of our weeks,
    which released
    one by one, so many hours
    for honey and silence
    for so many births and jobs,
    that clock also
    and its delicate blue guts
    among the broken glass
    its wide heart

    Life goes on grinding up
    glass, wearing out clothes
    making fragments
    breaking down
    and what lasts through time
    is like an island on a ship in the sea,
    surrounded by dangerous fragility
    by merciless waters and threats.

    Let’s put all our treasures together
    — the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold —
    into a sack and carry them
    to the sea
    and let our possessions sink
    into one alarming breaker
    that sounds like a river.
    May whatever breaks
    be reconstructed by the sea
    with the long labor of its tides.
    So many useless things
    which nobody broke
    but which got broken anyway

    Pablo Neruda

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