Surviving gloom

We survived January, all 31 days. I am writing this on the morning of February 3; by the time you read it, February 6 or later, the year 2020 will be ten percent completed, calendar pages run through a cosmic shredder.

As near as I can tell, the earth is still turning. Australia burns, coastlines rise, the Congress refused to confirm that the president obstructed it, the Super Bowl was a triumph for fourth quarter heroics by a dazzling young quarterback. We’ve been here before.

Today, the white bread state of Iowa will caucus, launching success and failure for the remaining Democrats slavering to be declared the true Anti-Trump. Tomorrow night the real Trump will deliver his State of the Union address in order to declare victory on every front, regardless of truthiness. This will all be old news by the time you hold this paper in your hand or read it online.

As a teacher, I created an illustrated February crossword puzzle for students to play with as I fought my endless paperwork. February – the name is derived from “Middle English Februarie, from Old English Februarius, from Latin, from Februa, plural, feast of purification,” saith Mr. Webster – lends itself well to crossword trivia: birthdays for Washington and Lincoln, chocolates for Valentine’s Day, the shadowy prognosticational powers of a whistlepig called Punxsutawney Phil, the explanation of Leap Day. In school, February is the longest month, not the shortest. Kids and grownups slog through the gloomy winter days between Christmas vacation and spring break, hoping for a snow day. (The weather forecast calls for snow this week, which will also be old news by the time you read this. It will or it won’t, it did or it didn’t.)

Of course our lives culminate each day, each moment. The bravest of us know how to live in the moment, to maximize our potential, glory in nature, celebrate our passions, love those whom we love and perhaps most important, dismiss petty stuff and get on with our lives. We live in one small corner of the universe, a lovely little place where we can watch woodpeckers and foxes, Bambi and Thumper. I’m hoping we get real snow – this the fourth year in a row without significant snowfall, and the woods are beautiful after a snow.

Driving around the other day, I saw broken down barns, disintegrating vehicles, junkpiles, fallen trees, trash heaps. Sometimes country people just don’t worry about all that. Except for evergreens, the trees are bare. Some people find them ugly, but the branching structure of big trees is wonderful, especially giant sycamores, whose branches are white against the grey sky. All that yuck steaming out of Washington, DC and headlines everywhere can be let go.

At our house, the old blind cat spent another of his nine lives. For almost a week, he ate nothing, although drinking water and sleeping motionless. Then one day he started eating again, moving around. He walks in circles, bumps into walls and doorways, spends almost all his time on our bed. If he survives that long, he will turn 20 in May.

How does that compare to human longevity? Or can it compare? He can still jump onto and down from the bed, still find the water bowl and the cat box, but dementia is his most obvious feature. If he doesn’t make 20, we will dig a hole out there where he’ll join three dogs we’ve buried in the past couple years.

If I lived to be one hundred, I am nearly two-thirds gone. Some lucky soul can bury me or scatter my ashes; I ain’t particular, and will be less so when dead. I can’t jump; somedays walking is painful. I can perform some of my responsibilities, though much slower than formerly.

The clock keeps ticking, the calendar erases. The sun came up, songbirds attack the feeders, an owl hoots in the distance.

If February’s original meaning was a “feast of purification,” it’s a good time to think about cleansing. Keep up with current events, vote, campaign, protest, inspire, pray, but don’t let Trump Anxiety Syndrome dominate your existence. It’s a big universe and our time is limited.