Asakiyume mita

Every time I get to exchange friendly words with people, it's a shot of pure joy. Every time I get to be (safely) in proximity to people, it's a rush of euphoria.

( under here find a beautiful stallion )

( under here see me talking to some kids about my apples )

( under here see some stylish motociclistas )

Anyway.

This is how I satisfy my need for connection in a time of coronavirus.

Mrs. B., retired kindergarten teacher that two of my kids had, who also ran a 4-H group that one of my kids participated in. She and her husband also had a farm in town and sold produce at local farmers markets--he's passed away, and she doesn't do that now, but she was in the 4-H tent, next to the baby calves, holding an adolescent duckling, with silky black feathers, cradled in her hands, a smile on her face.

"How are the kids?" she asked, and I talked about the two who are in Japan, and she talked about her daughter who's been in Ireland for 12 years. And then four children came up, curious about the duck, and she started explaining how it was still a duckling and the smallest of its siblings, and she pointed out where the others were.

She's a wonderful woman. If only you could have seen her smile and the gentle way she held that duck.

Here are those baby calves.

I liked the people who were waiting at the red light with me at the intersection of US route 202 and Massachusetts route 33. I was in the middle of three lanes, with my windows rolled down. To my left I could hear pleasant music. I stole a glance: the driver was large-necked, middle-aged woman with a relaxed and pleasant face. To my right was a guy on a motorcycle. He had a grizzled beard, maybe six inches long, that tapered to a point. Someone in a pickup truck driving across the intersection honked and hollered, and the guy on the motorcycle laughed and waved. The pickup truck person waved back. In my rearview mirror, I could see the guy behind me, young man with a baseball cap on and a little figurine of a rooster on his dashboard. It was a good smattering of humanity.

A few days ago I went in to the nearby supermarket. I went to one cashier whom I like--we always chat a little. She's maybe in her thirties? You won't be able to tell from my sketch, though I'm pleased because it does kind of look like her. She has pretty intense cheekbones.

Anyway, it had been a few days since I'd been in, and when she saw me, she smiled and said, "Good to see you! I haven't seen you in a while!"

This made me so very happy.

Which is just to say, little friendships, or whatever you want to call them--friendly acquaintanceships--can make a difference.



The other encounter was at a Dunkin Donuts. I was waiting in line, and at last it was my turn to order.

"You were the last, but now you're first," the manager said. (He was taking the orders.)

"Wow, like in the Bible," I said.

He gave me a look full of great skepticism. Not sure where the skepticism was aimed but .... anyway, the coffee was great.

Tune in next entry for a very cool poem I heard this morning.

I like the white-oak leaves because each one has individual variation.





If I get to looking at them (or snapping pictures), then I end up thinking, "Oh that one--and that one--and that one."

Are they people and the tree is their nation? They seem more that way than they do like, oh, say, strands of hair that might fall from someone's head, or like skin cells sloughing off.

... Of course, no one thing is perfectly analogous to any other thing, so there's that too.

The red-oak leaves are pointy. This one is from a pin oak. It's very elegant in and of itself (so I took its picture), but en masse, the red-oak leaves aren't, for me, as interesting. But if I had a more discerning eye, I could maybe tell individuality even among red-oak leaves.

That's what Desmond Coutinho, fiancé of hunger striker Irom Sharmila, wrote in a letter I received a day after seeing news stories about his being assaulted and imprisoned in Manipur, where he'd gone to be near Sharmila and advocate for her.

I'm worried about him. He's a complicated person, and the situation with Sharmila is complicated.

( very brief background on Irom Sharmila )

Reality, though, proved different. Desmond turned out to be very volatile, given to abusive criticism of people he opposed. It was easy to see how and why people dismissed him as a crank--but that's not an accurate assessment of him either.

He's been writing to Sharmila since 2011, and she's been writing back; he's visited her; they've talked. They have a real friendship--this is clear not only from what he says, but from what she says. It's not just him claiming to be her fiancé; she declares it too. Is she being duped or taken advantage of? To suggest that is to say that she's not capable of good judgment, herself; that somehow other people know better than she does--but she's the one who's had the correspondence. Her feelings are based on her experience.

And there's more to Desmond than his anger; he's also thoughtful, introspective, funny. He and Sharmila talk about books, philosophy, religion, politics. Furthermore, she knows about his moods; they've talked about those, too.

Many of the people surrounding Sharmila see Desmond as a threat to her protest, or as someone who's just seeking glory for himself. As for the former, they don't need to worry: Sharmila is 100 percent committed to her cause. But she'd like to be free to love, like other people love, and she is frustrated by people trying to prevent or deny her affection for Desmond. As for the latter, all I can say is that in every communication I've had with Desmond, he's been focused on her, and her welfare, and her cause, and, yes, their future together--and not at all on himself.

If Sharmila should give up fasting--not at all likely, but if--that wouldn't need to be the end of the campaign against AFSPA. Even though she's a powerful symbol of the cause, the cause is still bigger than she is. And contrariwise, if she were to die for the cause, that wouldn't necessarily help it. It would, however, be the loss of a unique soul, and a tragedy.

Sharmila deserves better treatment, both from the government and from some of her supporters. The government has kept her isolated and limited her contact with people. There's no reason for that; that's just a form of abuse. And those of her supporters who oppose her friendship with Desmond should ease off. If the fight against apartheid in South Africa could survive Nelson Mandela's divorces and remarriages, then surely the fight against AFSPA can survive Irom Sharmila's commitment to Desmond Coutinho.

I hope once Desmond has finished his 15 days in jail, he's able to visit with Sharmila some more. I hope both the local activists and the local government will leave him alone. I hope the fight against AFSPA can continue, and that Sharmila's life can open up in positive ways.

backpack for a pillow
Walking early, first on the rails, balancing. It's one of my favorite things. Later, past kids waiting for the bus. One girl had made her backpack into a pillow and was lying on the cold ground, knees bent. Other kids were standing around. One of the kids, his eyes and mine met. I smiled and looked away.

red leaves
Driving to the dentist, past maples whose leaves are still bright red. I keep meaning to gather some bright-red leaves and make a leaf wreath. I daydream about doing this each year, but I never have. My chances are almost past for this year, too. Of course the leaves would dry and curl and fade right away, but it's the chance to handle that momentary brightness and make something. I can't add at all to their beauty but if I can *use* their beauty, then I'll feel like I've participated in it.

open faces
On the way into the medical building, a silver-haired woman with a walker and a silver-haired man, walking beside her. I don't know even the barest speck about their joys and troubles; all I can tell you is that both their faces seemed open and serene.

hard times
In the building, a thin woman on a cell phone, pacing by the stairwell. "Yeah, I've been having a hard time . . . The kids? They're not little anymore. My daughter's 15 and my son is 13, will be 14 at the end of the month . . ." Does talking on a cell phone confer its own privacy?

maybe tomorrow
After the dentist, passing those red leaves again, but I can't stop, because I have a job waiting at home. And just now I've finished the job, but it's dark out. So maybe I'll try tomorrow.