
That can easily lead me to one of my meandering talks about having clean water. A dear friend, older than me, just got off weeks of diarrhea. Her western doctor wasn't a whole lot of good, by the way. She reminded me, There are places this is called "dysentery," and it kills people. Yes, it kills people all the time, but seldom in suburban America.
Phyllis had many honors, appeared on the cover of Time, won a Pulitzer prize for her poetry. Yet she is now almost forgotten. My city library, one of the best in the country, has only four works by her, children's books. And I suppose you can buy anything she wrote for $.01 online. There's your note on impermanence, how even praise and blame pass.
However, she is still with me. She inspired me, somehow, with a dream of making a harmonious home, of being a poet and of thinking about my life. I am quite the feminist, but have never let go of that ideal, and I still think it is a good one. All over the planet people are dying in the wake of earthquakes and epidemics for want of a simple shelter the size of our guest bedroom. (That guest bedroom was one of the middle-class things I saw as deeply privileged back then. ) Home, a safe home, is a wonderful thing to have. We forget that. We could begin each day with a list of the things for which we can be truly grateful.
Bare feet on a smooth wood floor.
Excellent full-bodied coffee.
Shelter from the wind that is rising even now
and the rain that keeps misting down.
[image: the back seat of the van two weeks ago, full of woodland and native plants for our front gardens.]
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