Sitting under the snowbell tree-- Around me the patio covered With blossoms the color of old bridal veils The sweet scent rising I am remembering the birth of my first child Brought into the world after hours of labor “Hello Tiny Tim!” said my doctor And then they bore him away Not to be given to me until half a day later And my second baby Arriving like the whirlwind after induced labor Laid on my belly as they rolled the gurney Down the hallway “Welcome to the world, my daughter” My blood pressure dropping And no men allowed those days Relegated to the waiting rooms 20th Century births The blossoms fall like gentle rain I pick one up from my lap It is as delicate As lovely As mysterious As those babies Born so many years ago --Kristin Moyer
Category: Uncategorized
-
Mother’s Day 2023
-
Turning 80
I celebrated my 80th birthday a month ago, and one of my friends asked me how it felt to be 80. Mostly I feel surprised and amazed.
You would think I would know that 80 comes after 79, but I feel as though this 80th birthday came out of no where. It snuck up on me. I don’t feel 80, though when I see candid photographs I have to acknowledge that I am old. I don’t have as many wrinkles as some of my friends, but there is that jawline and the aging neck.
I also hear the clock ticking more loudly. Both my parents died in their early 80s. My mother had a heart condition, and I was recently diagnosed with a heart condition, too. I am trying to take care of that problem, with medications and a cardiac ablation, and I need to build my stamina back, too.
I have great plans for this new decade, but perhaps I will not get all ten years. The road behind me stretches back for many miles, and the road ahead cannot be as long…nor would I want it to be. But I hope to travel, to explore new places, to spend time in beloved places. I hope to self publish two books. I hope to spend time with family and friends. I hope to stay healthy and in my home.
A dear friend told me that her rabbi gave a blessing to one of his congregants who was turning 80, and told the woman that according to Jewish tradition, she had now reached the age of strength—strength that comes from eight decades of life experiences and lessons.
So I have reached the age of strength. May it be so. And may the road lead onward.
Kristin Moyer
February 3, 2023
-
Passages
The tattered books are over fifty years old Thick board books, with moving wheels Showing trucks and fire engines Beloved by my son And I hand them now to Kevin the store clerk Kind and caring to me at the wild bird store Whose little boy Henry was two yesterday And who likes books… That the adventure may go on. Kristin Moyer July 12, 2022
-
Summer, 1972, Washington DC
Pre Roe v. Wade
We lined up on the Mall In the hot summer sun and waited In our white dresses and slacks and shirts With our signs Freedom of Choice And finally the march began to move Off the Mall onto the streets, all of us chanting, Around a narrow corner where enraged faces Screamed and shook jars of tiny bodies Then onto Constitution Avenue And the marble dome of the Capitol Floating like a mirage of Justice Kristin Moyer June 24, 2022
-
Deep Diving
In the darkened room Gel cold on my chest “Hold your breath” And like a diver looking for treasure I hold my breath and turn my head to see for the first time Beating for eighty years The chambers of my heart May 5, 2022 Kristin Moyer
-
Fall 1926
The man walks down the lane Between the rows of elms he planted To the mailbox by the dusty road Opens the door on the box Empty No letter from his girl His first born child so little at birth Tears had come to his eyes Fearing for her life But she survived and grew Smart as a whip A good girl Now off in the city Gone to college Too busy to write The man turns Empty handed Chores to do in the barn No foreshadowing Of the stroke that will come In the spring Kristin Moyer For my grandfather
-
Web of Life
March 5, 2022 With every wedding we attend We are there again Facing our loved one Our hands clasped Faces aglow And with every deathbed we attend The river smooth or storm tossed We are there again Holding a hand Seeing the light fade held in this cradle Of memory and love Kristin Moyer
-
Passages
March 3, 2022 I unzip the case, remove the dulcimer Sleek and shining, walnut and redwood Lay it on my lap, take up the pick Strum the simple melodies from memory The lone wild bird Shenandoah The ash grove Amazing grace And my dying friend in the bed Closes her eyes and smiles “The lone wild bird in lofty flight” I sing softly “Is still with thee and in thy sight” I never sang for you, dear mother, on your hospital bed Or for you, dear father, dying alone in the nursing home But I sing for my friend “Great spirit come and rest in me.”
-
Journal of the Plague Years, continued
February 1, 2022
We have entered the third year of the pandemic. Last winter the covid vaccines started rolling out for adults, and we thought we could see the light breaking out. But then Delta hit in the summer, and that variant made people much sicker than the original virus. Boosters were recommended, and in the fall people lined up and bared their arms again.
But not all people. A minority of Americans but still a sizable number were anti-vaccine for various reasons, and some of that number also were anti-masking. Wearing masks was mandated in some states, and in other states such as Florida governors banned mask mandates.
However, covid rates were dropping. By November 2021, the outlook was brighter. I attended a play at the Kennedy Center where everyone had to show proof of vaccination and wear masks while inside. There was a feeling of relief and excitement in the air at being inside a theater again, and at the end of the first musical number everyone in that packed house stood and applauded. The play was the musical Hadestown, based on the classic Greek tale of Orpheus and Eurydice, in which Orpheus fails to lead Eurydice out of the Underworld. Perhaps a foreshadowing of what was to come….
Because about that same time a new variant Omicron arose in South Africa and soon swept around the world like the tsunami of all viruses. It was not as deadly as Delta but it was highly contagious, and even those who were vaccinated and had received boosters contracted covid. And although most cases could be treated at home, the sheer numbers packed hospitals. In some places hospitals had to ration care. People went back to meetings and church services via Zoom.
Now covid numbers are dropping again, but unevenly by state. In the United States over 886,000 Americans have died since the pandemic began. The global number of deaths is over five million.
When we finally emerge, like Orpheus from the Underworld, we must not forget these years and all that has been lost.
-
Winter Musings
December 3, 2021
During my early grade school years we lived in Minneapolis, Minnesota, and my memories of winters there were of snow and cold, mittens and mufflers, snow boots with buckles, and outerwear steaming on radiators.
We had skis and skates and visits to the local parks where we skied down short little hills and skated on the bumpy ice of frozen small ponds. We made snow balls and snow forts. When we came inside there was cocoa and music and books.
And there was Christmas and all its magic, which my mother worked so hard to create and which I think we all took for granted. Now I hang some of those fragile glass ornaments on my own fresh green tree and think of her.
Some winter I would like to fly away after Christmas, back to Minnesota, to the little cabin built by my parents on a ledge half way down the hill, overlooking the lake. From that perch I would be able to look out over the frozen ice to the pine trees on the other side. At night the moon would glitter on the snow and the ice, and the wind sigh through the trees. But that is a fantasy, because there is no running water in winter, the only heat comes from electric baseboards, and the steps down the hill are a toboggan run for local friends. But nevertheless I imagine sitting there with my mother’s ghost looking over the hill and lake she loved so much, listening to the winter wind.