Fallen Cottonwood Leaf
I have found myself neglecting this blog, again, and I am not sure why. First, I think, I have had a lot to concentrate on, these past few years. Over the past 23 months, we have lost 14 family members (including extended family), and as I am coming up on the first of the second anniversaries of the deaths, I am bogging down, again. Friday will be the second anniversary of the death of my mother’s last sister, and the 15th of next month marks the second anniversary of Mother. Father’s follows in another three and a half months from her death.
I do not have a bereavement counselor at this point. (I will revisit that decision if the impending death of a relative currently in hospice care upsets the apple card and all else tumbles out in reaction to the event.) It is okay to experience grief and then move on. I know that grief is an experience that does not last forever.
Anyway, as things are changing in the computer/Internet world, and as I grow older, my energy level wanes, I begin to rethink the extreme compartmentalization of my life across so many blogs and domains. Into my seventies by a ways, there are things that I should be doing with what time and energy left to us. For one thing, serious divestment of possessions. Last week, I threw away almost all of my software and backup CDs and DVDs, and I am now sorting out the documentation and user manuals from the poetry and literature. I accepted too many items from the parents’ estates, and now must decide whether to toss things while nobody is watching…or mention items to determine whether someone else in the family things that they want something enough to pay for shipping, saving me the city landfill disposal fees.
I talk to myself, here. Nobody visits. Nobody reads what I write, and there is comfort in that. Still, I wonder if mere sentimentality justifies paying the fees for this space. (I am not investing in SSL at such a price as is charged here; my other web host includes it as a courtesy, part of the hosting package. I do not collect information of any sort, and so that seems useless.)
With the advent of the new Word Press editor (and the death of MySql, as I understand is happening), will there be aggravations that are not worth my coping time? Should I drop the email accounts from the domain package? Switch current lists to different domain addresses?
My on-line life is sequestered and maze-like. I must make it less so. More “fireproof”.
My first step in all of this has been to dump the Jetpack plugin. I do not actually need it.
Now that my six-week photography workshop has ended, and before I start to go through the weeks’ essays and exercises again, I need to get back into writing, for which this is a first step.
I did write two poems, this week: one for Ronovan Writes Haiku, and another just on the spur of the moment.
Out with Dad
picnic box waiting…
bikes propped up against the fence
walking hand in hand
together, now, and happy
loving spirits, free again
Copyright © 2018-10-23, by Liz Bennefeld.
The pictures to go with it are on my Quilted Poetry blog: “Still in Love”.
The other, written the previous day, is the Ronovan Writes Haiku challenge, and the photograph is not necessary to the poem. The post title is “Leaves and Starlight”:
icy fingers brush
the hillside trees with color
rabbit seeks his nest
nature compasses the night
with artful clouds and starlight
Copyright © 2018-10-22, by Liz Bennefeld.
Oh! And following up on the New York to Nome book (see a previous post, tag new-york-to-nome), I enjoyed it thoroughly. It got a bit rushed toward the end, but I can see that repeats of previous conditions, only spring instead of autumn, would not have added much to the impact of the tale.
And another surprise to me. As I get farther into the “diabetic diet” experience, I find that my allergies to paper and ink are somewhat abating (although not recently printed advertising, catalogs or newsprint), I am able to read printed books more comfortably. Hardcovers, anyway. I need not feel that purchasing HBs to back up my ebooks wastes money. Only a lot of bookshelf space.