“Extreme Heat Warning” is the headline for today, Monday. It’s been five days of Heat Advisory with a high alert for wildfires and no measurable rain since June. The rest of the world is soldiering on under far worse conditions than this, but for us it’s unusual. Some neighbors went out and invested in air conditioning; they are running their units right round the clock. (Our normally silent nights, enhanced by the calls of barred owls and flying waterfowl, are now all humming windows, angular auditory cubes of white noise.) Saturday night after sunset the temperature dipped by a few degrees, so I made two trips to the food co-op to refill my filtered water jars, almost a mile each way, and then got out the hose and watered the vegetable patch. Then with all windows open I ironed clothes, soaked beans and grains, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, and washed floors until 2:30 am.

In the morning I woke up at 7:00 am. Here on the top floor facing east, the studio was already too warm. The sun was already uncomfortably bright even with the shades down. So I draped some fabric over the curtain rods to block more sun, resisted the false promise of sleeping later on a Sunday, and got to work improving the situation. Safety first: As an older person I stayed well out of the sun, did not go out and walk anywhere, and sipped plenty of water all day. That left an ideal day for housework.

Some chores had gone by the wayside these past few weeks, with the new habit of hitting the gym every day after work and getting home at 8:00. So today it was good to catch up.

The big venture was cooking. The fridge was packed full of paper bags of foraged and bargain foods. Down at the Fruit & Folks open air market the hot weather interfered with the refrigeration, so the dear proprietors offered fantastic bargains on vegetables to carry home. Our bike trail is lined with invasive Himalayan blackberries and cutleaf blackberries, and other very local wild fruits. Abandoned houses have public alleyways with unclaimed apples and plums. My own vegetable patch has kale, onion flowers, herbs, and horseradish leaves in need of picking, plus edible weeds like purslane, lambs’ quarters, and dandelion. At the food co-op, there is a last markdown sale with 6-packs of plants for only 99 cents each! Those hardy greens will grow all winter, so I carried home the box of little flats shown in the picture above.

It took eight hours to get it all cooked up and tucked away. Why so long? Partly because on such an ideal laundry day I got to wash the linens and towels in the bathtub and boil them on the stove, then hang them on the balcony to bake in the sun. Mainly because foraged / bargain / garden produce needs extra washing and trimming. Besides, the raised garden patch downstairs really needs water. So, all day I’ve carried buckets of vegetable wash water and dish water down 42 steps and around the corner to the garden, with a quick jog back up the stairs. This produce needs lots of trimming too, so batches of trimmings went down the same 42 steps all day to the compost collection bin, about 20 round trips.

Here tonight is half the contents of the fridge. (Where is the other half of the fridge? It’s labeled now and tucked away in the freezer.)

The trimmings and leftovers from the fridge cooked down for a vegetable stock to sip on. The dinosaur / lacinato/ Tuscan kale (shown above with the apples) needed a whole LOT of washing and trimming, then it was all shredded in the Cuisinart to break down the cell walls and enhance the nutrients. The stems were very tough, so I trimmed those away and shredded them separately and spread them in the garden as a green mulch. The kale cooked up into small jars for lunches, seasoned with tomato sauce or apple sauce, balsamic vinegar, garlic granules, and Ethiopian berbere spice mix.

The different wild berries needed a careful picking through on a white tray, then a gentle wash in baking soda water. Then they’re lifted out and splashed in white vinegar, then rinsed and placed in a glass pot to cook gently in their own juices and brought to a boil and strained. The first pressing of juice makes a good berry syrup for the freezer. The rinsed strained pulp makes a good sour berryade.

Wild apples like the ones shown above are a 33% proposition. Cutting them in quarters will reveal that a third of the apple is fit only for compost — bug-eaten or spoiled by a core of residue like dark shredded plywood. One third is fit for the stock pot, and then the other third can be stewed and blended for sauce with peel and all. Trimming these blemished little fruits is tedious, but the flavor of that 33% is much more lively than the taste of clean shining uniform store apples. Even when fruits are completely sour, they make a valuable dressing for strong tasting greens. One batch of apples was so sour that I blended them with some overripe bananas, water, soymilk, a spoonful of cocoa powder, and vanilla extract; that will be a dessert shake to drink after getting home from the gym.

The rhubarb was sliced up and cooked in the glass pot in water. After it’s cooked and in a jar, it’s sweetened with raisins; they plump up in the hot rhubarb juice. (It’s not a good idea to add sweetener while the rhubarb is cooking. The sugars can burn easily, and that’s a great way to destroy a glass pot.) Purple plums were blanched and peeled by hand, then pitted and stewed for a beautiful red-gold compote.

The other items could be washed and just boiled or steamed — millet, chickpeas, beets, tiny new potatoes from the neighbor’s garden, odds & ends of fridge greens for a cole slaw, mushrooms that dried out in the bargain bin but still make good stock, a red onion to chop up & pickle, and shake over salads as a condiment.

On one trip downstairs I was throwing water on some poor wilted berry bushes in back of our building. “Hey you! What are you doing trespassing here?” a voice shouted behind me. And “Why are you watering that bush?” said another. Two of my favorite neighbors, a bright young couple with a delightful sense of humor, came charging out their door waving their arms. “Well somebody had to, and you weren’t doing it yourselves, ya deadbeats,” I told them. Lively banter was had by all.

The whole day was just stove and pots and pans and freezer containers and wet linens and sloshing around with buckets and compost up and down the stairs. But having a fridge stocked up for the week is a massive privilege. All I could wish for is someone here who would like to share with me the choicest bargains that money or scrounging can acquire. It was a real gift to have this day at home and to wake up with the chores put to rest.

At every annual physical, my remarkably youthful primary care doctor looks at my chart and asks me in a concerned and caring voice, “And are you still able to do your own housework?” I tell him Sure, so far God willing. Next time I should bring him some plum compote.

(Blanket Flowers down the street, a random picture irrelevant to this whole junket.)

Concluding idea: Maybe that scope procedure showed my doctor some things about part of me. But writing down this experience was like a different scope into my own thought process start to finish, and that’s a journey too.

The Big Disclaimer: My day at the clinic was a sea breeze compared to the medical experiences of other patients. In my own case the procedure carried the lowest level of risk. Preparations and results will vary widely depending on a person’s own circumstances (diabetes? anti-coagulant medications? sleep apnea? on and on). For someone else there may be lots of other safety instructions, so this is not medical advice for anybody else.

The Second Big Disclaimer: A colonoscopy, like a flight on a commercial airplane, feels like an insane amount of privilege. Both experiences are carried by the intelligence and dedication and skill of an army of people behind the scenes. To write about it here, when the option isn’t available to the people who may need it most, feels like taking unearned good luck and flaunting it around. At the same time, what if someone needs the same procedure but is worried and wonders what it’s like? Well, maybe these thoughts will help.

A friendly patient representative called in March. Their hospital clinic had re-opened their calendar for new appointments, and they could book me in for June. This is a routine scheduled preventive diagnostic for people of senior age. The last colonoscopy was in mid-winter, and that is not a comfy time for a water fast and cleanse. June sounded ideal. Over the phone there was a long list of questions about medical conditions and history and lifestyle, assessing my risk level for the patient chart. Right after the call, my phone and email lit up with notifications: the update to my patient chart showing the phone interview, prep prescription, instructions, driving directions and maps to the parking lots. 

Step 1. Booked three days off work, to include a day for the prep, then the day after. (Another extreme privilege: a job with leave time, and a studio room to rest in.) My grab-&-go hospital binder got some updates for the occasion: the clinic’s assessment of my risk (low), medically relevant history including a POLST / DNR forms, and contact info for me, my doctor, my responsible adult driving me home after, and my relatives.

Step 2. Called my friend Sandy, to be my friendly grownup to drive with me to the clinic, check in with me at the front desk, give them her phone number, and promise to wait and drive me home and see me safely in the door. Luckily Sandy did all of that. I also called a second friend as backup standby, because on the day what if something came up for Sandy, or her car didn’t start? (It started up fine. Sandy had just bought it.)

Step 3. Ten days beforehand, cleared out any food that might linger in the digestive system and clutter up the doctor’s view through that scope. The chia seeds, flax, hemp, nuts, raisins went in the closet with the air-pop popcorn maker. I finished off any groceries with seeds like tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, even bananas (they have seeds too). For the last few days before the prep, directions say to cut out beans, and items with vivid colors, especially red ones — so no beets, no red cabbage, no pomegranates, no dulse, no dark chocolate. To be on the super safe side I cut out vivid greens and high fiber too.

Step 4. One week in advance, picked up the prescription. The supermarket pharmacy texted when it was ready. At the counter a young pharm tech handed me a gallon-plus sized jug with just some white powder at the bottom. Before handing it over, he had me electronically sign a release form stating that I had received complete counseling on how to take the prescription. I signed, then asked “What counseling would you like to give me?” He said “The counseling is ‘Talk to your doctor.'” But the empty jug with powder puzzled me. In the last two procedures in years past I seem to remember receiving pre-mixed prep, and some additional flavor packets. “Is there anything else I’m supposed to pick up?” I asked him. “Anything else to do while I’m here?” The young man gave me a stricken look. “No no — the prep is at home. You do it at home!”

As opposed to, say, prepping in Aisle 4. That was adorable. And so was the scene a minute later at the cash register, for Step 5.

Step 5. Stocked up on white low-texture food for the three days before the prep: light-colored low-sodium broth, tofu, rice milk, pasta, white baking potatoes (to eat without the peel), plain puffed cereal, a bar of white chocolate, distilled water, and a 12-pack of toilet paper. Our young Christian cashier rang up the items and said “Nice to see you, Mary. Have an amazing blessed day! Any big plans for the weekend?” I said “Yes!” and held up the jug. To the cashier’s bewilderment, on that checkout line everyone over the age of 50 started laughing, saying “Yup, we’ve had those weekends.” One super-fit trim young man with a radiant laugh said “Me too. Go proud! Go proud!”

Step 6: White Food. The standard meal around here is leafy greens with beans, stewed tomatoes, seeds, and red Berbere spice. So a couple days of bland white food was a novel change, like being a little kid in the 1950s again. But even one meal of refined stuff can really tank one’s blood sugar and wellbeing. A person can fill up and still stay hungry. It became harder to concentrate, to prioritize projects, to make sequential-step decisions. One night I felt so gnawing and anxious after supper that I bought a jumbo box of Life cereal and wolfed down the whole thing. That’s a good reminder of how most people feel every day the world over! That includes the millions with little or no food, and some fellow Americans with a higher budget. It gave me more understanding too of the many attention-deficit issues that people can face, for a whole range of reasons.

Step 7: Fasting. After two days of plain carbs, the next two days of fasting on just water was much more comfortable. The trick was remembering to not eat — another good reason to keep those cabinets cleared out. While batch cooking for the week ahead I had to remember not to taste-test anything, and not to lick the spatula.

Step 8, a day in advance: Parking. I took the maps and instructions for both hospital parking lots, tiptoed down the ramps, and interviewed staff at the ticket booths on their procedures. Which ramp was likely to fill up first at 2:00 pm? Did they take cash? The staff were all very nice. I walked through the garages to explore the location of elevators and exits and emergency call boxes, then went home.

Step 9, the night before: Doses and Flavorings

Surprise: YouTube had a prep video, filmed by my own medical team at my own clinic! The presenter insisted that every patient has to ask the pharmacist for the flavor packets that go with the prescription; the tech is supposed to tape them to the jug. Hm. I called the pharmacy. “That formula doesn’t come with flavoring, Hon,” said a strong good-humored reassuring bass voice, clearly someone who had helped many patients through this same rodeo. “Just go buy ya some lemonade powder; you’ll be better off. Or, save ya money: I been there myself. After the first quart of that stuff I don’t taste nothin. Could be gasoline for all I care. Just get it down and over with.” That sounded reasonable at the time.

The prescription called for 4 liters of formula mixed with plain water, 12 cups taken the evening before and 4 cups or so taken early on the day, drunk as 8 oz. every quarter hour. I drew up a spreadsheet with ruled lines and clock times, to checkmark each dose taken. I took some sticky labels, numbered them 1 to 16, and on each one I wrote the clock time for each dose. That night I set my phone alarm to signal every 15 minutes for the 12 evening doses. I applied the labels to the lids of 16 Mason pint jars, and measured out the doses in each jar. There was a stressful moment when the measurements didn’t quite add up. But that makes sense; the doses are in metric, and my kitchen measuring cup and the markings on the jars are in English measurements. That tracking system was a real help for accuracy and peace of mind.

One video suggested drinking this stuff ice cold to dull the taste, but I never drink cold things and was afraid it would upset my stomach. So I just set the doses in a row on the counter. Thinking How hard can this be? Here goes! I slugged down a cup of bitter salty water. But looking ahead to the next 15 doses gave me pause. At some point the body is going to react, as it’s designed to do, and say “Don’t be an idiot. Stop drinking salty water.” Drinking formula is one thing. Keeping it down is another; some folks can’t, and then they have to cancel the whole procedure.

Back to the supermarket. There were many powdered drink brands on the shelf, but they contained daunting innovative sweeteners. Finally, here was this one exception — TRUE lemon original Lemonade Naturally Flavored drink mix, shown below. This 1.06 oz. box came with 10 little packets. Each packet is sweetened with 1 gram of plain cane sugar, with some stevia. Friends, this lemonade powder was a great investment. It helped me drink all those doses in comfort.

Side note: for this experience, it helped to wear comfy surgical scrub trousers with an easy to unfasten drawstring, and to stock the bathroom with edifying and inspirational books.

After all the doses, and in between, we’re instructed to drink water and clear liquids. Gatorade is recommended, but at our supermarket it comes only in large shrink-wrapped plastic lots in vivid blue and green colors. Luckily I was able to find a bottle of untinted no-flavor unsweetened Gatorade sold as individual bottles. (Thank you, dear Mom & Pop Korean grocery!) Unflavored Gatorade is a little odd, with a faint quality like the scent of fabric softener at a laundromat, but my body found it very heartening. The white grape juice and coconut water were a real help too.

For the next procedure, a few years from now, as soon as it’s scheduled I’ll run right out and buy all of these right away.

Step 10: The Big Day

Early in the morning I drank the final doses and lots of water. I shined up the kitchen and bathroom. I prepared a small simple light supper for after the procedure, to avoid knives and stoves while recovering from anesthesia. I made up my bed roll, and laid out sleepwear ready for immediate bedtime. I put away my cell phone and wallet and office keys. I showered and dressed in comfortable clothes.

I took my apartment keys, the empty prep jug, the bin of empty containers from all the clear liquids, an exact food journal from the pre-prep days, and the dosage schedule with all the times checkmarked. That’s in case the medical team asked anything like “So what have you been eating? What is your idea of a ‘clear liquid’? Did you drink your formula?” I added a printout of the parking instructions, plenty of cash and a quarter roll, my hospital binder of medical history, and a heavy blanket.

Dear Sandy showed up early, right as rain. “Blanket??” she asked. I folded up the blanket as a seat cushion, explaining that even when a person is all wrung out by this process, they don’t want to risk an old friendship and a new car. Sandy raised her hands in surrender. She is familiar with my mode of operations by now. She eyed all my gear and data without comment, and listened respectfully to my reassurance that I had interviewed the parking attendants in advance. As we pulled away I said “Oh no! I was going to give you a book by Timothy Snyder at Yale University. Please remind me after the procedure, and I’ll give it to you then.”

Parking was easy, and I was proud of knowing the exact location of the elevator to the clinic. We checked in at the reception desk. As always, I’d stored up maximum anxiety in advance, prepared and fretted at every stage, then was astonished and overjoyed when the day didn’t leave me sitting in hell in a handbasket. That made it a special pleasure to meet the team.

The colonoscopy team is a very high-morale outfit. Unlike the ER, this is not a place where anyone is rushed in with a crisis. Patients are vetted and instructed and scheduled well in advance, and this is not in general an emergency high-risk procedure. (It probably also earns the hospital a fair income; according to the chart notes, from start to finish my colonoscopy took 18 minutes.) The medical team whisked me in, saw no need to inspect my empty juice containers or checklists, and settled me in bed. One kindly medical assistant helped me stow my stuff and to robe up, one started an IV for the fentanyl and midazolam, and the doctor came in for a final final check. (I showed her my hospital binder, and pointed out my POLST form.) The team seemed to sense that this patient appreciates good humor, and they were ready to comply.

A truly wonderful anesthesia nurse came in to explain the program for the day, and they wheeled me to the procedure room. There, the sound system played a 1983 hit by Sting and the Police. “Oh, so is that the Anesthesia Nurse theme song?” I asked her. “‘Every breath you take, I’ll be watching you.’?” She laughed “Yes it is, and yes I will! And what is your favorite music?” I figured she was asking out of courtesy to put at me at ease, so I said “Russian Orthodox chant.” She said “Great! So… like Fleetwood Mac?” I said “Yes, exactly.”

So while they adjusted the equipment and my IV and draping, in the half minute of down time waiting for the doctor, they team broke into an impromptu happy dance while we all sang along with Fleetwood Mac’s “Seven Wonders,” which given the context was a pretty amusing song choice.

The doctor came in all enthusiastic about getting started, and said “Now first I’ll make an initial exam before we insert the camera.” Sure. I was about to give her consent to do just that. But then somehow this was the parking garage again, and there was only a warm instant of memory of the doctor saying with a cheering smile that everything looked normal and fine, and we were done.

   “It’ll be ten dollars,” said Sandy, replying to something I must have said.

I handed her the money and thanked the attendant for our parking experience. “Sandy?” I asked. “Am I stoned right now?”

   “Yes,” she assured me, and we headed home.

Back at home I snipped off my patient ID bracelet, and set the prescription jug in the pantry. (In the event of an adverse reaction the batch number on the jug has to be reported to the pharmacy. There was no reaction, so three days later I peeled off my medical ID label and threw the jug in the recycling.) I settled into bed with my sweet potato and miso soup, and slept deeply for four hours. Waking up, I packed my wallet and office keys and then remembered the Timothy Snyder book that was supposed to go to Sandy. Oh no! I looked at the shelf. The book was gone, leaving a little gap in its place. I must have given it to her, meaning that she must have walked me upstairs, which was very thoughtful of her.

A couple of lessons remain.

One, the days of refined foods and fasting (and then a day or two of medications wearing off) made it more difficult to plan and execute the sequencing of steps in a task. For example, I set up hot soapy water and my scrubbing board in the kitchen, but really should have fetched the handwashing first to save steps. Sequence makes meaning and carries consequences for the result of a project. Well, at times in my life there have been people making choices without thinking ahead to the results, eliciting the question “What were they thinking?” Sometimes people caught those moments in time and/or noticed and repaired the result to do it differently next time, but not always. Well, it was humbling to realize how little it takes for my own sense of sequence and consequence to be thrown off track.

Two, remembrance can be a tremendous gift. We have the potential to commit events to memory, to store and retrieve the memory, then to articulate and create meaning with it and share that meaning with others as part of deep human connection. When people remember important events in my life, it makes me feel connected. When life-altering events are forgotten or unnoticed by people who matter to me, it can feel as if my life either didn’t matter, or just didn’t happen. Well, perhaps there are moments when that knack is out of their hands. After leaving the clinic I didn’t even remember putting my pants back on. But the someone doing it must have been me, because when I got home my lymphedema bandages were all perfectly wrapped and fastened in place. I did thank Sandy later for her company that day, but did I ever say “Thank you” when she dropped me off? No idea. (I did text her that night feeling anxious about the parking. What did I owe her? How much was it? “Ten dollars,” she texted back. “You paid the attendant.”) Remembering is a high-level ability, and is more fragile than it seems. I feel committed now to preserving that ability as much as possible.

There was a lot to be thankful for too, to Sandy and everybody on the team. Later that week I typed up thank you notes for the doctor and the anesthesia nurse, telling them what was especially helpful about their care. I taped the notes to cards, and dropped them at the clinic in observance of our day of Seven Wonders.

Not a real parsnip, and not something to touch or burn or compost. If the plant oil gets on the skin, and if the skin is exposed to natural daylight, the oil causes phytodermatitis — a skin burn. The weed is 5 feet tall or so, with flowers almost the size of a dinner plate.

From our commuter bus a flash of a view was visible out the window every morning for days. It finally concerned me enough that I got off the bus and took a good look.

At first I was afraid it was Giant Hogweed. Hogweed is larger, and hazardously toxic. (While looking up images of Hogweed, I inadvertently populated my viewing screen with a gallery of Hogweed injuries. The burns in those images were very serious.)

But no, my scattershot amateurish citizen-science online research suggested that this was Cow “Parsnip,” a smaller less dangerous cousin. Cow Parsnip is still a burn issue though, and this patch of it was thriving wildly.

Problem is, it was growing outside a school building. It took some tracking down & around, but I found the landscaping team in charge of the grounds, and emailed them pictures and a statement of the problem, and my concern that some student might go outside and start picking jumbo flowers. The facilities office responded right away! Their coordinator emailed that a work order report was now on record. What’s more, later the coordinator emailed again, to say that the grounds crew were going to add this to their day’s inspection.

Professionals were on the case, and could decide what to do. It was reassuring to leave this issue in their hands and gloves.

Every evening before sunset it’s time to head out for purified water, toting a jug and coins and a rosary or my Orthodox prayer book in liturgical Greek, to memorize and chant a few new words along the way. It’s an hour a day for one mile there and back, stopping to meet neighbors and admire plants and sky.

In the bright setting sun, here are some miniature Columbines.

At the little Bible church the pastor’s family comes out to greet me. Their splendid purebred hunting dog warns me loud and clear to stay away from her humans. But then we all chat about neighborhood news and of course liturgical Greek. At that their faithful guardian quiets down and drops back to all fours and resumes following her nose toward bushes and birds. They unclip her leash. She trots peacefully into the house.

Calla Lilies in the shade. In the background those tall vivid popsicle blooms are Kniphofia.

Everything but the tail: a lucky shot of a little ginger lightning streak. Kitty comes zooming out each time to give me a good nuzzle and to roll around for his daily reminder of how beautiful and clever he is, then runs off to look for bunnies and squirrels.

Here’s an Orange Ball tree, full of fragrance and bees.

Common Evening Primrose, among Woolly Yarrow. Thanks, Google Search!

At the store, I fill my jug at the purified water machine. The cashiers are on the lookout for the same customer every day at the same time to buy the same item. Some days I pay for the 59 cent refill with exact change including four pennies. Other days I pay 60 cents and get a penny change. Since pennies are now no longer being made by the US Treasury, our daily running joke is that either their side or mine is going home with a collector’s item coin, which will change hands back again on the next trip tomorrow.

Behind this picket fence there is a lush old-fashioned garden. For weeks, there were fragrant little pale-pink Cécil Brüner roses spilling over both sides of the gate. Now there are yellow loosestrife plants and balloon flowers in blue and white. As I stop to take a picture, the gardener comes running outside with greetings and a chat, filling my water bag with flowers to take home.  

Near our street, a delightful young neighbor of faith stops me with good news. She is moving — in to the vacant studio next to mine! It’s reassuring that such a friendly presence is going to live right on the other side of the wall. We’re going to visit as soon as she moves in. We share some balloon flowers to celebrate.

At twilight the robins are singing all along the way. These days the waxing moon is up, on its way to full, with a few early stars. More stars form a line, rising one by one in a jewel trail from the airport south of town.

In the darkness, those Calla Lilies are sleeping.

Bellflowers, hydrangea, and roses from the gracious and giving new over-the-fence acquaintance. Night night!

1. A young man with long hair had staked out a busy corner. He had many layers of clothing and luggage and a sleeping bag, trying with eager anxiety to catch the eye of people walking by. Making the snap assumption that he was selling our street empowerment newspaper, I took out a couple of dollars. But at closer range it turned out that he was holding up not a sample issue and ID badge, but a cardboard sign that he needed to raise $20 to buy lunch. I gave him the $2 anyway. As is often the case, what he wanted was not just lunch but a conversation. He had a bright-eyed avid look, ready to ask advice and counsel from anyone who decided to stop.

“Thank you!” he greeted me joyfully. “Say, I’m from Florida. I just arrived in town. Tell me — how come people in this city are so unfriendly to the homeless?”

“They probably don’t mean to be,” I told him. “They are just concerned with their obligations and tasks. Head down, powering through the day the best they can. So, Florida? Are folks more friendly there?”

“For living on the street? Whoa!” He raised his hands in a protective gesture. “Florida’s downright dangerous. But say, why is the food here so expensive? Can you guess how much I just paid for a bottle of Kombucha?”

“Ah, no. Can’t afford Kombucha.”

“Oh. I’m sorry! I have to. I can eat only certified organic foods — dairy-free, gluten-free, soy-free.”

“Gosh. That makes it complicated for you, for sure.”

“It does. How do you get by, living here? What do you eat?”

“Well, at Christmas the store had a sale shelf of mixed dry beans, 99 cents a pound. I made a couple trips and bought 20 pounds for $19.80. Still eating on them, a big potful every week. And bargain shelf from the B-Grade produce stand, whatever is left on Saturday nights and needs cooking right away; they always have organic greens. And grain from bulk bins.”

“I’d love to buy rice,” he said. “But I can only buy those little instant plastic rice packages from [Local Zen Spendy Store], because they let me use the microwave. See other stores don’t let you do that.”

At that point other older neighbors saw his sign and stopped to chat with him and share dollar bills, so I headed off to mail a birthday card. It made me think. The absolutely harrowing difficulty of living on the street is well beyond my ability to imagine anyway, but it dawned as a new idea that buying food for life outdoors without a kitchen has to be way more costly. One more way that our food supply is all cattywampus.

He was such an eager young man, really hanging on every word that anybody said to him; clearly he wanted lots of company. Five years ago he could have gone to our public kitchen for young people like him, ages 18 to 25. They could come indoors for a hot breakfast and a hot supper and socializing with the staff. Whenever our workplace had catered events, I’d call their kitchen and then we’d drop off trays of food. I volunteered for their kitchen one time, putting supper together and eating with the guests. That night I woke up good & sick with Covid, and then the whole city locked down. That kitchen valiantly stayed in operation, but since the pandemic they have to refuse all fresh or cooked food (at our last visit the kitchen staff apologized profusely, and helped me take our trays of wrapped assorted sandwiches and pitch them in the compost). Now they’re only authorized to hand out sealed packaged snacks and beverage bottles with no more in-house hot meals or shared community. It’s one more thread of social fabric that has unraveled and disappeared.

2. I was kneeling on the ground looking for just the right angle to photograph a glorious rose-red camellia tree growing right through a wooden picket fence, against a pleasantly weathered little house in the old style — high pitched roof, deep set windows and doors, wraparound porch, little gables peering out from dormers and eaves.

To my chagrin, the door popped open. A man strolled out to light a cigarette, looking serene and composed, pondering the sunlight. I jumped up from the other side of the shrubbery and hastily complimented the tree, then asked his permission to take its picture. He gave me a friendly nod and a shrug of assent. Then he told me the history of this century-old house. His family had lived here and worked in the grand old theater downtown, producing musicals, operas, and ballets. He grew up backstage, learning the business from taking tickets and coats to working the popcorn machine, and kept up the whole family legacy — handmade costumes, lighting, backdrops, sound, musicians, staging.

For the next hour it was like a show right there, standing on a carpet of camellia petals in that dooryard, listening to him weave a whole spell of those grand theatrical productions.

I burst out with a lot of ideas to throw at him, things I’ve always wondered or marveled over, the backstories of movies and plays and their technical effects. Like, at one point I said “Now that backdrop you described sounds like…” I named an Orthodox church that I’d seen once, and told him all about its magnificent interior.

He laughed. “When the pandemic cancelled our whole season, for the subscribers we picked that church. I did the staging for the company to film a short feature film there.”

Unlike so many experts, he didn’t just roll his eyes and brush off my ideas. Naturally he’d heard all the stories, lived with those special effects, created many of them himself, made it all happen. But he just smiled in recognition, and added details I’d never dreamed of about just how much work goes in to the kind of production that true fans will remember for the rest of their lives. “For [classical world-famous epic] we had 220 stage hands and 78 tractor trailers of props for the scene changes, all made for that production. And at the end, where do you store 78 trailers? There’s no warehouse here large enough. We had to destroy it all.” He thought it over. “I’ve been very very fortunate. Raised in a career that I truly love, with the chance to work in it for a lifetime. By the way, that necklace you’re wearing is gorgeous.”

“This?” It’s beads on a little leatherette string. “Got it yesterday for a dollar. Church thrift shop.”

He shook his head. “Every bead of that is worth more than a dollar.”

“Oh. Are they glass?”

“Stones. Semi-precious, some of them.”

We wrapped it up when it occurred to me that “With all you have to keep in mind, you must have things to do. And here you just stepped outside for a quiet cigarette! Thank you for talking to me about the bigger plot unfolding back behind the curtain. I’ll bet the hardest part is working with all those personalities — performers, orchestra members, cast and crew, audience. So much. No wonder for his crew’s backstage snacks, David Lee Roth specified the color of the M&Ms.”

“Right,” he laughed.

“Creating those 78 tractor trailers, and letting it all go? That’s like a mandala.”

“Exactly.” We waved goodbye.

3. The Cable Guy was due at 2:00. The day before I moved my bookshelves and everything else well out of the way of the entire cable wire, dusted the baseboard radiator, worked the carpet sweeper, cleared off the computer table and the entry hall, had the new gateway router ready for him and a plastic bag so he could carry off the old router conveniently. I made sure everything was ready an hour early, at 1:00.

He called me at 1:07, a young man with an Arabic name. He’d reached my street, and was it okay to show up early for this call to the fourth floor?

Sure. I met him downstairs. He was just jumping out of his truck with the company name all over it and a tall ladder folded on top.

“Oh, you don’t need to use the ladder,” I assured him. “Let’s just take the stairs.”

He gave me a concerned look, and then had a good laugh.

We exchanged the usual pleasantries on the way upstairs. Taking a guess that he was Muslim I left my door propped open for his comfort. He immediately took off his shoes and left them outside. In about two minutes flat he swapped out the routers. Then he stood in silence at my side for twenty minutes, tapping a whole series of functions on his phone. “Diagnostics. Testing the connection,” he said. “Sorry. Takes a few minutes. So, are you from here?”

“No, New York.”

“What is your heart for New York?”

“My heart?”

“Yes! Like, think ‘New York,’ and what is your childhood thought that your heart is for New York life?”

“My heart remembers people being very religious. Every day at noon it was time for the Angelus prayer, to think about Angel Gabriel appearing to Hezrat Miriam. You’re driving in your car? Pull over and say the prayer. You’re a man wearing a hat? Take it off and say the prayer. The church bells ring for noon? Stop on the street and say the prayer.”

“Really? Unbelievable.” Tactful hesitation. “You know… New York? Not like that any more. Ok, your connection is all good.” He picked up the old router.

“It’s 1:28 now. Well that was fast. And what is your nice accent?”

“My what? Oh! It’s uh…” Pause. “Well, it’s… well, I’m from Africa. North Africa that is.”

“Oh, sure. Okay.”

Pause. “Country called ‘Libya.'”

“So you know Mohamed Bzeek?”

“I do. Do you???”

“Only through the news. I looked him up this morning to check on his health, since he’s had cancer. And no family to care for him.”

“No! Cancer? He brought home and cared for so many of the dying children! So many.”

“Yes, like 80. He takes babies in hospice care. At one point, people started a fund for him and sent him money. What did he do with it? He bought an air conditioner for the babies, so they can rest in comfort. That man will enter Paradise ahead of us all. Our favorite Libyan.”

Downstairs at the front door, we exchanged a handshake.

“Shúkran djídan, thank you for your call. Ma’a salaam.“

“Ma’a salaam. You know… Mohamed Bzeek. It’s kindness like him,” he concluded. “It is our only hope for the life.”

(Still life at dusk, with apple blossoms and tiny moon.)

Cashier Zia is a bright and upbeat young woman, wielding competence and cheer on a seriously multi-tasking job. On Easter Sunday during a break in the action she waves hello from the next aisle, calling “Mary Mary! Happy Easter. How is your holiday going today?”

In America this worthwhile social ritual is all planned out for us. Just color in the lines. All I have to do is wave back and say “Fine! You?” and by then Zia will be whipping through the transaction for the next customer. Simple.

So at self-checkout, pausing while typing in the bar code for my organic Tuscan kale, I smile right back. Then I just stand there speechless.

The real answer is that St. Sophrony the Athonite, later of Essex England, before his repose in 1993 (Bright Memory to him!) recorded ‘Why Some People Feel Empty During Easter (Even Though Christ is Risen.’ It’s on YouTube with English subtitles. (For some reason they use “Easter” in the title, even though the Orthodox are particular about correcting me to call it Paskha instead.) Anyway, in his frail warm little voice and old-school Russian, Father explains that there are Christians who do not feel joy at Paskha. Rather, they experience the feast as a “time of trials, of existential collapse.” These are the people who have still not conquered their fleshly passions. They may even feel “Paskha has come! Christ has risen from the grave. And here am I, still lying in the death of the passions.”

At that point, feeling many notches more discouraged than before, I turned off the computer and did the next constructive thing, heading for the store for leafy greens.

Zia: (smile turns to empathic concern) OH — What, did all your People die? My Gramma said life is just hell when all your People die. She always told me “Zia Dear, enjoy your golden years while you still can. Because ya don’t get many. And they ain’t that golden!”

Me: Thank you, Zia. She sounds like a wise and caring Gramma. Does she live nearby?

Zia: Oh, she died. (With a wave she sprints off to respond to an alert in the overhead paging system, calling for customer service in the frozen food aisle. Yes, they now have to keep the ice cream under lock and key.)

I finished entering bar codes for the greens, paid and packed, and walked home. Things felt better after the kale run. So I braved the rest of St. Sophrony’s talk, and it’s a good thing. He tells these other souls, the rest of us, “Do not give in to the temptation of these thoughts. You must believe that we shall truly rise. Say this, with fervor: “I do not only believe in the resurrection of the dead; No! I also await it.” Let us AWAIT the resurrection of ourselves and our loved ones, as the Holy Fathers expressed so wonderfully in the Creed. Remember that nothing else exists except Christ. Lean on Him and say in the meantime ‘Into your hands I commend my spirit.'”

It was a good thought to keep in mind for the end of the feast day. The kale cooked up nicely with tomato sauce and garlic flakes and crushed almonds and a shot of balsamic vinegar. Sweet potato on the side.

Angel of the Resurrection window, installed in 1898. Artist John La Farge, known for working with superimposed panes of layered glass in opalescent hues. Those peacock feathers in the wings are a glorious sight when the sun rises outside.

The book Angels: God’s Secret Agents by Billy Graham turned up at our Little Free Library. The title did not inspire immediate confidence. And for a staunch Baptist author, isn’t angel talk a bit on the fluffy side? But no, the book was a solid summary of angels throughout Scripture, with citations nicely annotated and organized. What’s more, Dr. Graham patiently defused the various homespun notions such as “Your child died because God needed another angel,” since people do not turn into angels even after they crochet us a doily or bake us a pie, not to mention that no one should ever say that to anyone ever anyway.

As the book points out, angels are not here to be endearing or cute. In the Bible, a “cherub” is not really a plump white boylet, but something intimidating and enigmatic. Angels as a rule dismiss any personal overtures toward themselves. They deliver messages in the fewest words, they get their job done, like changing your flat tire on Thanksgiving, and then vanish without dawdling around to be befriended or thanked. (True, two exceptions come to mind. One unnamed angel spends all night wrestling with Jacob (Genesis 32:26), who says “I will not let you go until you bless me.” In the Book of Tobit there is Azarias, or Angel Raphael in disguise. He stays on for over two weeks as an incognito fellow traveler, fisherman’s friend, matchmaker, marital counselor, diplomat, pursuer of demons into Egypt, collector of inherited silver, healer, and all-round helpmeet and comfort to Tobias and his family and dog. Incidentally, the Billy Graham book mentions other named angels, but not Raphael. Perhaps it’s because Tobit is included in the Bible for only some denominations, but not in others.) So to sum up, angels flash in, say their piece, and are gone before anybody figures out what-all just happened or who that was.

You never know when reminders of angels might come along. One time a whole crowd of fans flowed toward a stadium for a major-league ball game. A mother had her teenage boys and one quiet little fella all jostling at an intersection waiting for the WALK sign. Then, the little guy clutched his collar and cried out “My St. Michael medal! I left it home! Can we go get it? St. Michael protects me from EVIL.” (He pronounced both syllables at full value, é + víl, like the announcer for some thrilling show on old-time radio.) The teenagers hollered with laughter, clutching their collars and wailing in mock lamentation. (We have to be late for the game because Baby Whiny lost his medal, and because ball games are é + víl!) The WALK sign flashed on, the crowds shoved off the curb. But the little one stood weeping, bereft of his medal and now stung by the jeering of the bigger kids. We all missed the WALK sign.

I caught the mother’s eye, giving her a sympathetic nod, then turned to the youngster and said “Medals are important. They remind us that St. Michael is out there to watch and guide us. But YOU thought past that and remembered and had faith in him anyway! And that is all it takes. Go open an atlas of Ireland some time. Not just any map, but a good large atlas at the library. It shows you Irish names like Skellig Michael, Kilmichael, Kirk Michael, on and on. When people there thought about St. Michael and found his comfort and help, or experienced a real miracle, then they marked the place by giving it a Michael name.” Even the older teens got all quiet, listening. “But don’t believe me,” I told them. “The atlas has centuries of proof!” The young’un dried his eyes and raised his head high. Mom flashed me a smile; the light flashed a WALK.

If we-all were acquaintances, I could have entertained him with a factoid that small Catholic children can find it interesting: that there is one saint whose name is a question and a battle cry (Mi-ka-el, Hebrew = “Who Is Like God?” Answer: God alone), a saint who is not even a human being! It’s nice to think that his canonization did not bog down in the Vatican red tape gauntlet with its scrutiny of his personal life, medical documentation of miracles, and the legalistic assaults of the Advocatus Diaboli. He just flew right in, no questions asked.

According to Russian Wikipedia, Michael’s Orthodox title of Arkhistratig means leader of the heavenly hosts of angels. In Orthodox icons he is shown as a beardless youth with wings. The wings represent motion at the speed of thought, to act and perform the will of God. The gold background behind him is a symbol of heavenly radiance. The gem diadem symbolizes all-seeing wisdom. In his left hand, the slender lance symbolizes his role wielding spiritual combat over the forces of malice — fighting not flesh and blood, but the powers of spiritual darkness.

Citation: 13th Century, Monastery of St. Catherine, Mount Sinai.

Catholic depictions take the military angle, showing Michael full length with an athletic body in a Roman short tunic and armor. He’s braced on his right foot, pinning down the head of some massive serpent with his left foot, with right arm about to deliver a death sword blow. Often in his left hand he is holding the scales of the Last Judgment, measuring sins and virtues in an individual’s life and advocating for his soul; this is why there are cemetery chapels dedicated to him.

But those conventional portraits have changed quite a bit since Billy Graham wrote his book. The author might be surprised by results of my internet check just today, and its alterniverse of images generated by artificial intelligence. A modern twist is Michael with bare chest and washboard abs, and hair like young David Lee Roth. This result is definitely one of the most tasteful, though the sword looks about twice as long as a genuinely functional weapon.

Does each of us have our own guardian angel? Not everybody wants one, but I do. His silent wordless inner prompting conveys either one of two possible messages:

1. Go go go! Move! Act! Do it now!

2. Halt! You do not understand the bigger picture. Calm down. Let it go.

Does this prompting care at all what I feel or I prefer? No. Is it always right? Yes.

Have I ever seen an angel? Once. I was young and house-sitting alone in a bitter cold late winter in a small town where I knew absolutely no one, and for three days was too cold and despairing to get out of bed. The third night, I was swept under by an attack of sheer panic. Then, a luminous presence flashed into consciousness for a tenth of a second, and I recognized that this very presence had been interceding for my soul since before time began, a realization which brings me to tears to this day. With a single gesture the presence commanded me to get up on my knees and pray for myself with all my might, and to get out of that house and town and go find people, and do it right now. What came to mind next was the memory of a poster from a bookstore, a flyer for a Gender-Role Free Folk Dance club meeting for a potluck in the city. I rocketed out of bed, washed up and dressed warm, packed a bag, and ran out the door.

I walked out to the road through the wetlands in the wind and waving reeds, caught the town bus, then a commuter train, then another train, then another bus, then more walking, and within two hours I was at Gender-Role Free Folk Dance. The folks there gave me a warm welcome and a plate for their potluck. After a brief business meeting we sat huddled all cozy on the floor with guitars. Everyone had a song to share. I started singing “For the Birds” by Bruce Cockburn: Hummm Hummm Hummm, oh every day / flashes like a spray of blue jays. Oh, a golden crown upon each one / Like an eagle seen against the sun. Every single person at that potluck knew the words. They sang it over and over as a round, in harmonies, sounding just beautiful.

After a walk and two trains and missing the last town bus, I walked back to the house praying through the waving reeds along the water with jets flying right overhead toward the airport runway, all turbulence and scream and flashing lights and wings, and went back to bed for a blessed sleep.

When the folk dancers hugged me and thanked me for coming, they said “It’s great that you found us tonight. Who sent you??”

Bedtime. Take out the compost, or leave it for morning? I ran out to the bin with my bucket, stopped for a night shot of Mrs. Wing’s daffodils, and came back inside.

In the downstairs lobby I gave a courteous nod to a delivery driver in uniform examining a little bubble-wrappy package. He gave a courteous nod back, and punched the elevator button without knowing that our venerable elevator was not working. He had quite a wait ahead of him before Maintenance gets the parts they need and a tech to come fix it.

Decision time: Tell him, or not? When I interfere in other people’s lives by offering unsolicited good-natured commiseration, or factoids about stuff that they can figure out on their own, it is surprising how many can be annoyed by it. (Once I was visiting Boston, and a departing shopper became quite surly when I said “Sir, whoa — your wallet is still here on the counter.”)

Well, what’s to lose? I retraced my steps and went back to talk to the driver. “Out of order,” I sympathized.

But at least with that small overture, he somehow felt encouraged to show me the address label on the package. Let’s call it Apartment 800. “Ziss name for namber eight zeera zeera — is in this building?”

“Sure. I’ll show you. Stairs are right here. Ili ya samá voz’mú. Or I’ll take it myself.”

Double take. “Vy sámi? You will???”

Hey now. He surrendered the package with a smile (“And how did this happen? You are not a Slav!”) and we chatted up a storm. He whipped out his phone to show me his little village on Google maps. He talked about his Ukrainian relatives and his Russian relatives. They had of course a compelling story which does not belong here, so I expressed fragile best wishes for everybody’s safety. He expressed fragile best wishes that some day I can travel there and see the place for myself. I made a point of expressing admiration for that village’s centuries of expertise with artisanal apple tree husbandry and church architecture, and for one priest there doing wonderful charitable work. The driver just lit up. “Yes! I know him!!”

Then he headed out to his truck while we hollered blessings back and forth.

Dropping off the package upstairs, I felt so happy. I asked God to place me in more good connection chances like that one. It took all of seven minutes of time, between a truck and a compost bin. But in a troubling world it felt like a shining wee gossamer strand of peace thrown across a very wide bridge.