November 8, 2023 she swabs my shoulder briskly and I look away as the needle sinks in recalling my gratitude for that first Covid shot and then the second one that released me into daylight and hugs today is my seventh Covid shot pushing my shirtsleeve down walking into the sunshine of my world on this bright November day now missing 1,136,920 of my people due to Covid-19 less we forget no taps will be played remember them Kristin Moyer
November 5, 2023 Lining up in silence while the music plays Holding the taper to the small candle in the sand Silent with joy or sorrow, intent on the job and the moment All woven fine And the tiny flame catches and glows And the candle passes down the ranks of the waiting To the old To the young To men To women To those of no gender at all To white, to black, to colors in between From hand to waiting hand Sometimes with a smile Sometimes somberly But the flame passes From hand to hand Kristin Moyer
June, 2023
I am sitting in the car which my cousin Kristina is driving along the highway, through the fields and woods of Vestergotland, near the shores of the great Lake Vanern.
I am looking out the car window at the landscape where my grandmother was born, and my great-grandmother, and her mother.
And then I am suffused with a sense of peace…I breathe in and out, not saying a word.
It is as though my eyes are absorbing the landscape and then transmitting the view to all the cells in my body, down to the mitochondria beating out energy, these cells inherited from my mother, and in turn inherited from her mother, and through all the women in my maternal line.
This great peace fills every part of my body. I feel my heart beat slowing.
It is a though my body has recognized this land, and every cell within me is saying
“You are home.”
It is like nothing I have ever felt before. And the moment passes, and we drive on.
Kristin Moyer
I have been here before No more desire to eat No more desire to drink Comforted by the warmth of bed My beloved husband was dying and I did not spend every minute with him Too busy trying to keep it all rolling Calling friends to come see him Doing laundry for gods sake While children and friends sat with him Though in the night I was there beside him The hospital bed pushed next to ours So I could touch him And hear the change in his breathing… There is that So now I stay in this room On a bright May day With my dying cat My sweet boy during the pandemic No more desire to eat No more desire to drink Comforted by the warmth of bed Kristin Moyer May 27, 2023
Sitting under the snowbell tree-- Around me the patio covered With blossoms the color of old bridal veils The sweet scent rising I am remembering the birth of my first child Brought into the world after hours of labor “Hello Tiny Tim!” said my doctor And then they bore him away Not to be given to me until half a day later And my second baby Arriving like the whirlwind after induced labor Laid on my belly as they rolled the gurney Down the hallway “Welcome to the world, my daughter” My blood pressure dropping And no men allowed those days Relegated to the waiting rooms 20th Century births The blossoms fall like gentle rain I pick one up from my lap It is as delicate As lovely As mysterious As those babies Born so many years ago --Kristin Moyer
I spend way more time on Facebook than I should, but there are rewards. Today there was a long list of Facebook posts I had made, from previous years.
This was the last post on the list, from thirteen years ago.
“May 2, 2010: Today Bill planted four tomato seedlings. Emma and I went swimming, even though it was 64 degrees.”
Bill was in the garden, planting tomatoes. The tumors were growing in his abdomen. He knew he was dying, and that it was very likely he would not see those tomatoes bear fruit. Nor would he eat any of it. But he believed in the future and the goodness of home-grown tomatoes. The cancer slowed him down, but it did not stop him from living. Bill knew he was fortunate, that not everyone could keep going.
Eleven weeks later on July 14, 2010, Bill died, in our bedroom, surrounded by family, held by love.
And in late summer, I harvested the tomatoes that he had planted.
May 2, 2023
I celebrated my 80th birthday a month ago, and one of my friends asked me how it felt to be 80. Mostly I feel surprised and amazed.
You would think I would know that 80 comes after 79, but I feel as though this 80th birthday came out of no where. It snuck up on me. I don’t feel 80, though when I see candid photographs I have to acknowledge that I am old. I don’t have as many wrinkles as some of my friends, but there is that jawline and the aging neck.
I also hear the clock ticking more loudly. Both my parents died in their early 80s. My mother had a heart condition, and I was recently diagnosed with a heart condition, too. I am trying to take care of that problem, with medications and a cardiac ablation, and I need to build my stamina back, too.
I have great plans for this new decade, but perhaps I will not get all ten years. The road behind me stretches back for many miles, and the road ahead cannot be as long…nor would I want it to be. But I hope to travel, to explore new places, to spend time in beloved places. I hope to self publish two books. I hope to spend time with family and friends. I hope to stay healthy and in my home.
A dear friend told me that her rabbi gave a blessing to one of his congregants who was turning 80, and told the woman that according to Jewish tradition, she had now reached the age of strength—strength that comes from eight decades of life experiences and lessons.
So I have reached the age of strength. May it be so. And may the road lead onward.
Kristin Moyer
February 3, 2023
Over the bare hill In the fog Beyond the dark trunks of the persimmons Beyond the dens of the red fox Beyond the pond with its crust of ice The new year lies waiting Tonight With my birthday in tow Perhaps a barge for this new octogenarian Or a skiff Or a kayak Or a sailboat To sail into the future December 31, 2022
It is December, with the winter solstice approaching, the season of light!
But I am having trouble producing light here on my hilltop.
First it was the four walk lights edging the pavers leading from my car park. All four lights were working, and then suddenly one evening, they were not.
I went out to the electrical corner the next morning. The transformer was plugged in and its face was glowing, meaning it was getting power. I tried turning the switch to off and then on again, and the walk lights came on. I set the timer to six hours, and that evening the walk lights worked.
But two nights ago, the walk lights were off again. I tried the same rescue operation, and last night the walk lights were shining again. For how long is anyone’s guess.
Inside the house the Christmas lights are frustrating me. The set of wax candles on the mantel has fresh batteries but I can’t get the remote control to turn them on at five pm, for six hours.
I am having the same problem with the battery-powered candles in the windows. They all have fresh batteries, but I can’t get the remote control to work their timers either. Two worked, but not the other ten.
Yesterday after reading the manufacturers’ instructions online, I learned the secret: you have to turn on all these candles manually at the base first before using the remote to set the timers. I waited until almost five pm, and then followed the instructions. And it worked. The house was lovely with flickering light. I will write a note of instruction and put it in the storage boxes, so that next Christmas I will not be frustrated. I am almost 80, and I forget things.
Yesterday I also brought the Fraser fir inside, set it in the stand by myself, and put on the strands of small clear lights. First I plugged in each strand to be sure the whole strand of 100 was working. But when I got the first strand carefully draped around the top most section of the tree, the second 50 lights were dark, so I had to take the lights off, muttering and climbing on and off the step ladder, and replace it with a new strand.
Finally I had all the lights on the tree, and I sat on the couch to admire my work.
Bill had always put the lights on the tree, and Bill had set up most of the window candles—his favorite Christmas decoration and one that he was not in a hurry to take down after Christmas. Sometimes the window candles were up until Easter; they were the old plug-in kind.
This is my thirteenth Christmas without Bill, and it is hard even after this passage of time to make the light shine without him.
I sit in the dark living room, the lights shining on the tree, the candles flickering on the mantel and in the windows, signaling to the dark sky and to the stardust that I am here.
December 12, 2022
October 7, 2022
A few weeks ago, I was at a dinner party and toward the end of the evening, I launched a question: where do you come from? where have you lived? where has been your home? Each friend responded, and their stories revealed facets of their lives we previously did not know. Many of them moved frequently, due to parents’ jobs or vocations, and those frequent moves shaped them. A few grew up in just a few homes, in the same town or a few towns, and that also shaped them.
I returned to my own home that night, and thought about where do I come from. I grew up as an Army brat, and although we did not move as frequently as some military families, we moved about 15 times before I graduated from high school, living in five different states. You have to learn to make friends fast, or you don’t have any. You have to learn to be flexible and adapt quickly. It also provides perspective that growing up in one town does not give you. I certainly saw my segregated high school town differently from my classmates who had lived there all their lives.
A song floated into my head the night of the dinner party, a hymn that we sing at my UU church. The title comes from a Paul Gauguin painting: Where Do We Come From?
Where do we come from?
What are we?
Where are we going?
Mystery, mystery, life is a riddle and a mystery.