The Monsters under Some Beds

Say hello to Laramie, the Chihuahua mix we got from the Kentucky Humane Society on the next-to-the-last-day of my high dose radiation for breast cancer.

We adopted her because when I woke up the day after my surgery my first thought was, "I need to get a Chihuahua."  And so it came to pass.

This morning that cheerful little dog coughed up a hairball the size of my fist on the leather couch, jumped down, ran into a corner, upchucked, and then took a nap to recover from the excitement.I cleaned up after her and then loaded the dishwasher. When I was done, I turned on the disposal. Fairly soon I noticed that the garbage was bubbling up on the other side of the double sink. Then I noticed that the bottom of the dishwasher held several inches of water and garbage.


Meanwhile, the big-ass Mitsubishi television in the living room blew a gasket today and now produces only static and crackling. I'm torn between wrestling the thing to the sidewalk for the trash men (it's huge and DOMINATES the living room) and waiting for my beau to get home from work to test the thingamajiggies (I nearly said tubes, but that's so last century).

Dog, sink, and television all  in one morning. Our "things fall apart" experience continues unabated.  It began on August 30 when, ten minutes before we were to go out of town, my Jeep, which we were to take with us, broke down. Since then, empty jars, the Crock Pot, the Jeep again (it actually has had three breakages, two of which were fixed, the third of which awaits a spare thousand dollars to fall from the sky), a small end table, a piece of my mother's china and more have all broken.

All of this is to say that I had an annoying morning, which may be the reason I had a minor fit when I listened to the noon news and heard yet another half dozen reports related to the upcoming Susan G. Komen walk/run.I hope to God it's this weekend because I've had all I can stand of the sacralization of breast cancer that accompanies the annual event.

The White House was lit up in pink, for God's sake.

I've been on edge about the topic since last week, when two different magazines came to hand in which the editors whinged on idiotically about breast cancer

In the first case, the editor said every woman is scared before a mammogram.  Oh, please. I've never been afraid of mammograms, not my first one in the late 1980s through my most recent one two days ago.  In truth, I feel a great deal of affection for mammograms, what with them saving my life and the lives of zillons of other women.  I even love the room where my mammograms are done. Drunk on painkillers and Valium, I was taken to that room the day of my surgery and found the sight of five people hunkered around a tiny screen discussing my own personal left breast hilarious. Whiffs of left-over good humor greet me each time I return.(Obviously, my not being dead contributes to my good feelings, but isn't that true of all of us?)

The second editor had the audacity to say that the thought of breast cancer frightens every woman.

Where was I when she became my spokesperson? Beyond that, why do people act as though breast cancer is the worst thing that could happen to a person?  It's nothing but a disease. Yes, some people die of it; and everybody hates when that happens; but how does that justify grown women acting as though a monster is hiding under their beds?

If you want to talk monster, I'll give you a monster.  It's name is multiple myeloma. In 1998, life expectancy after diagnosis was 28 months.  Geraldine Ferraro got lucky; she lived for years following diagnosis. My late husband, on the other hand, only lived for 22 months.  Multiple myeloma is an orphan disease, far less common than breast cancer, but one hundred percent of the cases are incurable and fatal. If you want to be scared, that's a far more logical disease to fear.

And some things are far worse than that.Not long after he was diagnosed, Fred told me that he kept asking himself "Why me?"  I'd pastored a church for the three years prior to his diagnosis and conducted more funerals than I'm going to count up. I'd spent quality time, in great quantities, considering the idea of death; and I'd reached one absolute conclusion.

"I don't mean this ugly," I told dear Fred, "but I'd rather you have cancer than five people I can think of right off hand."

Fred blinked, and then he uttered two healing words: "Me, too."

The five people?  Our grandchildren. If you need something to be afraid of, don't bother with breast cancer.  Rather, be afraid that a child - any child: yours, mine, a friend's, a neighbor's, a stranger's - will be diagnosed with cancer tomorrow.

A mammogram is a diagnostic test, no more worthy of drama than that moment  when the dentist pulls your tongue forward during a cleaning to examine your mouth for cancer.  If you want to over-dramatize it, leave me out of the conversation. I've got a Chihuahua to clean up after and a no-monsters-allowed-beyond-this-point life to enjoy.

I'll be home for Christmas

I'm in South Carolina for a sad event -- the funeral of my daughter's stepson. Michael J. Honeycutt, called Jay, age 32, died early Saturday, leaving a fifteen-year-old daughter.

The death of someone so young is, always, heart-breaking.

A bit of consolation rests in the family's decision to allow organ donation, but consolation is a hollow word this week.

The kind people who love Jay are brittle with mourning, flooded with grief.

Tara's cousin and his family made cookies yesterday.  My teenage niece is accompanying me and Tara's other cousin to the memorial service.

May we all go well into this day.

On Writing Again

I've been a dervish of tidying, which I fear is connected to the book proposal I'm mentally writing.

I'm cleaning out, nesting, and battening down the hatches all at once, a mixed-metaphor precursor to finding within myself the necessary levels of stupidity and forgetfulness that will free me to enter into a new book project.

Easier to pledge to scourge yourself once a day with a metal-tipped flog. You might convince yourself that a scourge or two is pleasing to God; but you can't bullshit about writing a book. The process demands utter concentration and a powerful indifference to other people, spiked with intermittent blistering annoyance.

The writing, editing and publishing of my 2003 book was one of the three worst experiences of my life.  My husband Fred died a month after I signed the contract.  My sister died two weeks before the book was released.  In between I had to listen to an insufferable agent tell me that I needed to put Fred's death in the book "for balance."

Yeah.  That's what she wanted out of my husband's death:  balance.

At the time I was still having to remind myself to tie my shoes each morning; and I'm not a whore, so eventually I advised the publishing house that rather than include Fred's death I'd return the advance and reclaim my manuscript. 

The agent fell off the face of the earth (I'd been warned but thought it impossible in my case); the editor was let go from the company; the publicity person got fired; the in-house make-it-happen person left
to be an agent ; and the book became that most useless creation, a publishing orphan.

To round things off, George W. Bush threw a war and newspapers threw out the reviews of Grace they'd planned to publish in favor of big photos of shock and awe.

I put 70,000 miles on my car, showing up for every signing, Q&A, book fair, symposium, and retreat I could get myself into.  (For those of you who believe in the book-tour fallacy?  I'm still paying off that credit card.)  And then the United Methodist Church -- a major character in the book -- refused membership to a gay person, making a mockery of every sermon I'd ever preached and every statement I'd ever made about the Church's goodness, mercy, and inclusivity.

The entire process was like every other death you endure.  I've kept circling my wagons and seeking shelter in the center, near the campfire.

A bigger man might have written a new nonfiction book sooner, but a bigger man can't write with the beauty and wisdom and rhythm and authenticity and metaphor that I do. A woman might have done it, but (no news here) we are still a sexist society, and women with any sense read the book, wrote to thank me for telling the truth, and put the book back on the shelf, after wiping off their fingerprints.

Regret?  Yeah, baby. I regret every minute I wasted on that book.

On the other hand, I'm going to sue a number of copies in a piece of performance art, as soon as I clear up a few questions about outside burning in the county.  I read Fahrenheit 451 years ago and have reread it numerous times since. Of course I'm opposed to book burnings; but in this case it's my book, my match, and my decision.

Meanwhile, I've got this book taking shape in spite of myself.  I know the first three paragraphs; and I'm experienced enough to know that when I write them down, the next 200 pages will emerge like a river overflowing its banks.  But it's December.  I have things to do.  I'll continue to put this project off until I have no other choice.

Karenzo Audace's interment, August 6, 2011

The burial of Karenzo Audace was done according to Burundian traditions, the controlling one of which is that the community (as opposed to cemetery employees) lays the deceased to rest.

When everyone in the vehicle procession had arrived at the cemetery, the wooden casket was carried under the usual green tent.  The leader said a few words, translated by an interpreter for those of us who didn't know the language (I'm not sure of the language but learned online that the three most often used in Burundi are Rundi, French, and Swahili.)  There was a song or two as well as a few words about Mr. Audace.  (Bear in mind that this service followed a two-hour service at the Pentecostal church.)  We were then told that the rules of their culture would be followed, beginning with the carrying of the coffin down a small incline to the grave.  Once the coffin was set down, it became evident that different straps were needed for lowering the coffin into the grave, causing a delay of twenty minutes or so. A few hymns/burial songs were sung.  A yellow butterfly flew past me.  A slight breeze was enough to keep us cool (the temperature remained in the low 80s).

Mr. Audace's wife, a tiny woman dressed in black, stood through the interment with her arms wrapped around and older woman whose black garments covered her entire body, including her face.  (I don't know if the term chador is correct in this instance; the family is Christian rather than Muslim.)  The two small girls were dressed alike:  dresses with black straps, a white ruched organza bodice that descended almost to the knees, and a white knife-pleated skirt that ended near their ankles.  The older daughter wore in her hair a burgundy bow the same color as the roses and ribbons on the standing wreath. The younger daughter wore a black bow in her hair.  The little boy, toddler size, wore a suit and leaned into the chest of the man holding him.

After a bit of commotion around the cemetery truck, the long straps were delivered.  The crowd surrounding the grave was six or seven deep, more in some places.  I was in the very back, our acquaintance with Mr. Audace having been quite short and my intention being only to show my respect, so I didn't see the casket slide into the grave.  But I did hear the leader say that the job of burying belonged to everyone.  There were four shovels, two quite short, two long. His widow shoveled the first dirt onto the coffin.

Way into the shoveling, I thought it would all be done before I had a chance to assist. Then I shook myself and thought, "No, it isn't true.  There's plenty of dirt for everyone."  A while later, I handed my car keys to a man standing slightly behind me on my left, stepped forward and offered my hands for a shovel.  I scooped earth and dumped it into the grave.  After the first spade-full, someone behind me offered to help.

"Thank you but no," I said.  "I need to do this myself." 

I didn't really mean myself; I meant myself and Michael, whose job responsibilities prevented him from being there to pay his condolences.

I lifted and dumped the shovel five times before someone took it from me and went to work at about ten times the speed I'd managed. Everybody paced each other;when one of the men slowed down, another stepped next to him and relieved him of the shovel.  A few songs were sung, but otherwise the ritual proceeded in virtual silence, each of us absorbed in watching the task.

It takes a long time to fill a grave, even with more than a hundred people -- maybe more than two hundred --  shoveling.  The earth had been piled on two mammoth plywood sheets when the grave was dug (I'm certain that digging was done by the community).  None was left behind on those sheets; it all ended back on the grave.  The surface was rounded, as you'd expect, and I watched two men chop at clumps of dirt with shovels while another man, wearing a golf shirt and long shorts and tennis shoes, was on his hands and knees smoothing, smoothing the dirt with the palms of his hands.

It felt like love and honor, that shoveling and chopping and smoothing.  Holy moments -- or, more accurately, holy hour or hour and a half.  And all the while, everyone stayed.

I studied the crowd from time to time.  The Burundi women wore beautiful, brightly colored batik dresses; many had ornate headwraps, which someone told me later indicated who was who (immediate family, siblings, cousins, etc.).  The men's clothing ranged from formal black suits to T-shirts and shorts.  It struck me that some people there were certainly plain-clothes county police officers or state or FBI officers  -- Mr. Audace's death was, after all, a murder -- but I lacked the skills to identify them.  The only real sign I saw was a Louisville Metro Police Department police car in a cemetery cul de sac as I drove away.

The crowd was predominantly black / African American.  A number of Caucasians attended the church service, but I only counted four, including myself, at the grave: a tall man, a blonde woman, and a third person I remember counting but whose appearance has left me.  He was probably undercover police of some variety; who else could manage to be that nondescript?

So.  All the dirt was replaced, and the grave was hand-smoothed.  A few words were said -- regret for the passing, recognition that this is not the first Burundian to be murdered without provocation in Louisville, a call for justice.  Then the flowers were placed on the grave. Precision was involved in the placement, but of course I don't know the significance of the placements.

I do know that one of the leaders held up a bouquet of flowers in his right hand and a silver pen in his left hand.  He said something like, "Karenzo was above all a teacher. The first thing he did was learn English, and then he taught it to everyone else, for no cost. This pen represents his life as a teacher. It also represents his children's right to be educated, so that they too can be teachers."  I understood that he was placing a claim on and a demand of the community, and I suspect it was a tacit but binding demand that Karenzo's daughters allowed a full education.  (I base this supposition on a conversation with someone familiar with Burundi, but still I could be totally wrong.)  The leader then placed the silver pen into the soil of the flower arrangement, and there it stayed, like an outer-space flower come to earth to live with the ones nature provided.

The ceremony, the ritual, the being allowed to share in the cultural traditions of the fine Audace family was a privilege. Traditional Burundi religions, according to wikipedia or the CIA site or somewhere I wandered on the internet, do not support a belief in an afterlife.  Rather, they believe the dead remain present and active in the here and now.  In that case, Mr. Audace is blessing and watching over his family, his community, this city, and this country, which he loved deeply; and we are all the better for it.

Karenzo Audace's funeral, August 6

I wasn't able to attend the church service for Karenzo Audace today,  but I was able to join the mourners at the cemetery for the final graveside rituals.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Mr. Audace was from Burundi.  He was one of many who fled violence in that country, migrating to Rwanda just before civil war broke out.  When Rwandans started slaughtering Burundians, he moved to Congo and, later, to Tanzania.  Eventually, he reached the United States.

A brilliant mind, a buoyant smile, and an undaunted spirit led him to English classes.  As soon as he learned to speak the language, he began teaching anyone who wanted to learn, at no charge.  At the grave site, one speaker handed over the badge Mr. Audace was to have worn in Washington D. C. on the day he was killed.  He was to have been there to meet with officials and discuss the needs of Burundi and Burundians in America.

"He was a teacher," said another speaker, holding aloft a silver ball point pen. "This pen is a symbol of his life as a teacher.  I am putting this pen into this flower arrangement to remind his daughters that they have the right to an education."

More than one speaker referred to Burundians' right not only to education but to justice.  I ask you: what justice allowed a violent man who had threatened Mr. Audace, his family, and bystanders with a knife to be released from jail so quickly, before the family's efforts to move away and end the conflict could be fulfilled?

To search for a reason for the death of a man so gifted, so young, so important to his family and community is fruitless.  I have come to believe this week again that some people despise the goodness, happiness, and commitment that they see in others.  I also concluded today after the graveside service that the trouble with killing people to keep other people safe is that there is no end to it. As much as we'd like to see the bad guys get shot, fall off their horses, and lay lifeless as vultures descend to pick their bones, we can't go down that path.  Mr. Audace did not take the path of violence; he was trying on the day of his death to remove himself and his family from such threats.

Murder, I regret to say, begets murder.  Once we begin -- we, the people, self-appointed vigilantes -- there is no end to the killing.  We become what we are trying to protect others from.

Several years ago, two other ministers (the Reverend A. Clark Jenkins and the Reverend David Smith) and I worked on a book about the church's role in violence. We met once a week for months to bat around ideas and choose who would write what parts and to search for understanding of how to create in the Church a commitment to peace.  I'd just come through a tough spell pastoring, during which I'd pop into the Reverend Jenkins' office to ask if I could kill a few people.

"No," he'd say firmly.  "We can't kill them."

"Why not?"  I asked.

"Because Joe Bethea told me so."  Joe Bethea -- Bishop Bethea to the rest of us, the first African-American elected bishop in the Southeast Jurisdiction of the United Methodist Church and a man despised as thoroughly in some corners as our president is now.  Joe also had supporters who loved him.  If Clark said Joe Bethea said we can't go around killing people, you can take that principle to the bank.

I will write more about the service, which was carried out in the Burundi tradition, later.  I hope to have some photos as well; a young man at the cemetery was taking photos with his cell phone, and we exchanged e-mail information.  In the meantime, go in peace.

Oh, Amy, We Hardly Knew You

I must update my mail art blog tonight,

but first I must say here how deeply I regret 

the passing of Amy Winehouse, 

a woman so young, so brilliant, and so tortured. 

 In the beauty of her life-giving arrogance

I thought her gorgeous.

 I especially loved the

"rehab/ no, no, no" song. In its rhythms, I connected to her,

even knowing it was a song of death.

  And that hair!

Do you know how much time and effort it takes
to rat yourself

into a temple-high beehive?

It is torturous to be wildly different,

to opt for the best 1960s hairdo

and the eye makeup in which we all look like whores.

Winehouse invented a drummer to follow, 
but the drum came with needles,
and she loved the needles

more than us,

more than the morning sky,

more than the music.

Or maybe not. 

Maybe it is just too damned hard to stop.

She reminds me not at all of Janice Joplin,

unless you count addictions;
and I see
no connection to Kurt Cobain's suicide.

Think instead of Heath Ledger.

Until I saw The Dark Knight,

I underestimated the magnificently gifted, 

courageous actor he was.

I saw it in Amy while she still lived.

 

I don't know how much research

exists on the cost to artists' souls

of leaving it all

on the stage,

in the concert hall,

or within the text.

Not much, I suspect, because people willing
and also capable

of doing so is a fraction of the whole.

 May the majority live long and prosper, 

but may those few
brilliantly blazing stars
pouring themselves out for our sakes
remain in our memories and
retain our respect eternally

for taking the rocky path through the forest, 

holy sacrifices so the rest of us

may imagine what living to the utmost entails.

Fibonacci 93. The End of bin Laden

The End of bin Laden

1    Death/
1    inevitably/
2    arrives with/
3    surprise in its/
5    bag of tricks. Long illness/
8    or sudden death makes no matter; the surprise/
13  has power. The night my father died, Mother said, "It's just so sudden"/
21  and then snorted in amusement at her silliness.  "What am I saying?  He's been sick for twenty years."
         We haven't been/
34  looking for Osama bin Laden anywhere near that long, and yet long enough that the attempt to kill him became more real than the prospect of his death.  We've been after him since 1998,/
55   and today, May 1, 2011, shortly after 10:30 p. m., the news broke.  Ding, dong, bin Laden's dead.  The caves of Pakistan coughed him out, and then somewhere a gun coughed.  Supposedly, a head shot.
         President Obama's press conference will begin soon, but meanwhile I'm told the body is in U. S. hands in Afghanistan. Amen.
                                                       by Mary Cartledgehayes

At times like this Fibonacci 86

At times like this

1     At
1     times
2     like this,
3     I think of
5    that movie about the sisters
8    whose mother died with her head in the
13.  stove. Southerners, of course, because they're the nation's agreed-upon crackpots.  I came in
21   at the moment one sister, who'd tried to hang herself from a light fixture, came down the hall, dragging the chandelier
34    behind her by the rope around her neck. Later in the movie, a sister says, "Mama was just havin' a real bad day," and those words held such healing that I've used them ever
55    since when someone I love is gravely ill or dying or dead, and I'm required to say to people, "Pay no attention to the tears splashing down my face."  Sometimes I tell them, "I'm just havin' a real bad day," but other days I have faith enough in humanity to think they'll figure it out.

Death and Gangrene Fibonacci 85

Death and Gangrene

1    In
1    an
2    act of
3    deliberate overstepping,
5    today in the face of
8    death and gangrene, I threw out Michael's final
13  pack of cigarettes and all of the ashtrays and all his lighters, too.

1    As
1    I
2    said to
3   my late husband
5   in January, 1999, the next
8   time I see a cigarette in your hand,
13 I'm driving to the nearest airport and taking the next plane out, regardless
21  of destination. By then I'd watched Fred nearly die twice.  I refuse to take part in slow, ugly suicide by cigarette.

1    I
1    can't
2    control a
3    single soul,
5    but that doesn't mean I
8   will watch my life go up in smoke.

Parting is Such Deep Sorrow

Nancy A. Hardesty died yesterday morning in Atlanta, Georgia.  Our friend Anne Eggebroten's blog post today gives more information.

The Purple Quilt Rides Again

The purple quilt that began with a few lovely purple patches draped on my mantel is now completed -- except for the batting and backing and hand-quilting and binding, which always go faster than making the quilt top because they require handwork rather than decision-making.

 As I've mentioned, I was making this quilt for Dr. Nancy A. Hardesty, my dear friend who is near the end of her two-year struggle with pancreatic cancer.  Nancy asked that I give the quilt (in her honor) to someone with breast cancer (in honor of my own breast cancer). Then I suggested we raffle or auction it off to benefit the Evangelical and Ecumenical Women's Caucus, of which Nancy was a founding member.  Nancy loved that idea and thought it would be a nice touch if whomever won the quilt then donated it to someone with breast cancer.

It's the circle of love, and I as designer wonder if anybody but Nancy and I could ever love this quilt. The fabric pieces are all relevant in one way or another or six to our families and friendships.  The newspaper piece because she's a historian.  The cross because of her faithfulness.  The tiara because (not everybody knows this) Nancy could never resist a fine tiara.  The lime green Halloween piece because she hasn't missed sending me a Halloween card in more than twenty years.  The pinks with polka dots because I love pinks with polka dots, which meant she would delight in having them there.  The purples, because it's her favorite color; she even owned a purple car for a number of years.  The New York scene because she's sophisticated, the ancient ruins because she took a fabulous trip through Turkey some years ago.  And the little piece of dragon, green on purple, because he's on many of the quilts I've made for family members and certainly belongs on hers.  Finally, there are the psychotic cats (bits of black on green on the bottom left) and the vintage piece I bought on ebay from a woman in Iowa who was selling batches of quilt pieces her mother had collected for sixty years, give or take a decade.

The quilt was in my car when I attended the Kentucky Cancer Foundation / Junior League breast cancer survivor weekend last month, and on Sunday morning, when the Reiki masters were there, on impulse I went to the car and brought the quilt in.  We discussed it and decided I would lie under it while they (there were two of them working together) offered healing energy to me and through me to Nancy.  When I got home from the weekend, I found the news waiting for me from Letha Dawson Scanzoni about Nancy's rapidly eroding health.

The quilt is on the chair where I set it down that day.  It's a good place for it for now.  One day I'll pick it up again and attach the batting and the back and begin the stitching of love and memory.  When a decision is made about auctioning, you'll be the first to know.

Fibonacci 69. Earthquake, Tsunami

Earthquake, Tsunami

1     Earthquake. /
1     Tsunami. /
2     Radiation danger. /
3     In words from /
5     the Hindenburg disaster, "O, the /

1     humanity." /
1     We /
2     can't fathom /
3     such grievous loss. /
5    We:  the world - the United /

1    States -/
1    I /
2    The earth /
3    shifted 6.5 inches /
5    on its axis.  Japan moved /
8    east eight feet, twelve in some few places, /

1   making/
1    us/
2    closer neighbors./

1    Haiti's/
1    earthquake/
2     in 2010:/
3    7.0 and 8 /
5    miles below the ocean's surface./

1    Deaths?/
1    316,000./

1    Chile's/
1    earthquake/
2    in 2010:/
3    8.8 and 22 /
5    miles below the ocean's surface./

1     Deaths?/
1     521./

1     Japan's/
1     earthquake/
2     in 2011:/
3     8.9 and 15 /
5     miles below the ocean's surface./

1     Deaths?/
1     Unknown./

1      Correction. /
1      Haitians /
2      may fathom /
3      such grievous loss. /

1       As/
1       always,/
2       nature wins.
                                by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 63. Cigarettes

An impetus for me to quit smoking was seeing a mock-up of a healthy lung and a smoker's lung in a doctor's office. My immediate family has stopped smoking giving it a rest. Most of us (including me) have used one drug or another or one mechanical system or another. In the end, what it came down to was that I didn't care if I had to sacrifice the friendship of everyone I knew and loved because quitting smoking -by which I mean living as long as possible - was more important than people.  (This was before the warnings that if you experience hostility while taking Chantix you should contact your doctor. I had it. I still have it. Get the hell away from me.)


Cigarettes

1    Five
1    people
2    I know
3    and dearly love
5    have quit smoking in recent
8    months:  my daughter (December 17); my daughter's fella
13  (February); my fella (November and March), my late sister's daughter-in-law (five months ago)
21  and my sister's sons (March 8). Then there's me.  My last puff was in October, 2007.  My last hankering?  Three hours ago.
34   Habits die hard, and they die long. What matters, though, is that they do die, do die, do die, as Johnny Cash sang so wonderfully; and the faster they die the longer we live.
                                                                                    by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 60. Passing Days

Passing Days

1    The
1    days
2    are running
3    away from us,
5    from her.  I've notified a
8    few people -- two, three -- of her address. She's
13  tired. Weak. Traveling the narrow path. We send her the light of the
21  holy, the light of the dark, the light of lights, the unleashed energy of each grieving heart to help her passage.
                                                                             by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 53. George Washington's Birthday Letter

                     Our Annual Letter
1    I/
1    haven't/
2    sent my/
3    Christmas cards yet,/
5    nor mailed New Year's; Dr./
8    Martin Luther King, Jr., Day; Valentine's Day; nor/
13  Lunar Year of the Rabbit cards. And yet I hate to let the/
21  seasons pass without saying to friends that 2010 was a stony road, with my father's death and my illness; but that/
34   I am now well, and so are Michael and our Labrador mix, Koko. Laramie is ebullient. She's the Chihuahua/Jack Russell we adopted -- she was found wandering down the roughest thoroughfare in town --/
55   to walk me and comfort me during radiation.  Now I'm healthy enough to walk both dogs at once; and I have a purple bicycle that so far I've fallen off of only once. We have primary and secondary health insurance.  I won the Louisville chapter of the Society of Professional Journalists award for best essay.  In/
89   spite of her vascular dementia, my mother is doing well in the care center where she's lived since Daddy died.  My brothers visit often, taking flowers or candy or her cat named Cat.
             My late sister's younger son and his wife are expecting a baby this summer, and everyone is thrilled, including Mother (this she remembers).  My daughters remain smart and beautiful.  Bradley is in the Navy, stationed in Hawaii. Devin graduates this June. My friend Lizzie graduates next year; her brother sat out football due to injuries but is/
144   hearty again.  Michael took family leave to care for me and, in December, was promoted and given a spiffy company vehicle.
          I write a poem daily based on the Fibonacci Sequence, a kind of fractal (any group of numbers that add back into themselves).  The number of words per line is as follows: 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, etc. I've been told the sequence ends at 21, but ask me if I care.
           I won a ribbon for photography in the state fair, and I make art every day. Small art to put in the mail to strangers around the globe. Semi-abstract quilts. Large collages to hang on walls. Altars to the planet, made from junk and wood dragged home from dumps./

          On this George Washington's birthday, we wish you health, happiness, and sufficient wealth to purchase fine wooden false teeth if needed.
                                                       Love to all, Michael and Mary Jo

Fibonacci 48. February 17, 2011. Revised

February 17, 2011   Ash Wednesday

1    One
1    year
2    ago this
3    evening, my father
5    died.  My therapist tells me
8    I'm experiencing post-traumatic stress disorder, again.  Memories
13   of my husband's coma merge with my father's and so do thoughts of
21  my friend Johanna, who just experienced the same timeless life of the dying, consummated when her David died on Saturday. Amen
34   to all we love. Blessed be. Hello to all we love. Blessed be. It's quite different on this side. But the life we lived as they lay dying -- those timeless moments are unceasing. Amen.
                                                                     by Mary Cartledgehayes