Mother’s Day 2023

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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

A Lesson in Dying

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I spend way more time on Facebook than I should, but there are rewards. Today there was a long list of Facebook posts I had made, from previous years.

This was the last post on the list, from thirteen years ago.

“May 2, 2010: Today Bill planted four tomato seedlings. Emma and I went swimming, even though it was 64 degrees.”

Bill was in the garden, planting tomatoes. The tumors were growing in his abdomen. He knew he was dying, and that it was very likely he would not see those tomatoes bear fruit. Nor would he eat any of it. But he believed in the future and the goodness of home-grown tomatoes. The cancer slowed him down, but it did not stop him from living. Bill knew he was fortunate, that not everyone could keep going.

Eleven weeks later on July 14, 2010, Bill died, in our bedroom, surrounded by family, held by love.

And in late summer, I harvested the tomatoes that he had planted.

May 2, 2023

Turning 80

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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

New Year’s Eve 2022

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Over the bare hill 

In the fog

Beyond the dark trunks of the persimmons
Beyond the dens of the red fox
Beyond the pond with its crust of ice

The new year lies waiting

Tonight

With my birthday in tow

Perhaps a barge for this new octogenarian

Or a skiff

Or a kayak

Or a sailboat

To sail into the future


December 31, 2022

Let There Be Light

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It is December, with the winter solstice approaching, the season of light!

But I am having trouble producing light here on my hilltop.

First it was the four walk lights edging the pavers leading from my car park. All four lights were working, and then suddenly one evening, they were not.

I went out to the electrical corner the next morning. The transformer was plugged in and its face was glowing, meaning it was getting power. I tried turning the switch to off and then on again, and the walk lights came on. I set the timer to six hours, and that evening the walk lights worked.

But two nights ago, the walk lights were off again. I tried the same rescue operation, and last night the walk lights were shining again. For how long is anyone’s guess.

Inside the house the Christmas lights are frustrating me. The set of wax candles on the mantel has fresh batteries but I can’t get the remote control to turn them on at five pm, for six hours.

I am having the same problem with the battery-powered candles in the windows. They all have fresh batteries, but I can’t get the remote control to work their timers either. Two worked, but not the other ten.

Yesterday after reading the manufacturers’ instructions online, I learned the secret: you have to turn on all these candles manually at the base first before using the remote to set the timers. I waited until almost five pm, and then followed the instructions. And it worked. The house was lovely with flickering light. I will write a note of instruction and put it in the storage boxes, so that next Christmas I will not be frustrated. I am almost 80, and I forget things.

Yesterday I also brought the Fraser fir inside, set it in the stand by myself, and put on the strands of small clear lights. First I plugged in each strand to be sure the whole strand of 100 was working. But when I got the first strand carefully draped around the top most section of the tree, the second 50 lights were dark, so I had to take the lights off, muttering and climbing on and off the step ladder, and replace it with a new strand.

Finally I had all the lights on the tree, and I sat on the couch to admire my work.

Bill had always put the lights on the tree, and Bill had set up most of the window candles—his favorite Christmas decoration and one that he was not in a hurry to take down after Christmas. Sometimes the window candles were up until Easter; they were the old plug-in kind.

This is my thirteenth Christmas without Bill, and it is hard even after this passage of time to make the light shine without him.

I sit in the dark living room, the lights shining on the tree, the candles flickering on the mantel and in the windows, signaling to the dark sky and to the stardust that I am here.

December 12, 2022

Where Do You Come From?

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