Can one be pounded any more, any harder, now that normal climate no longer lives here?
A day for facing the basic fact that life is chiefly about personal survival for the most part. That it’s each man for himself and for those closest to him. And that life can still go on or work when reduced to its simplest operations and dimensions.
And that passing trifles, such as making tea for someone else, become magnified hugely–the smallest, tenderest acts of kindness by strangers; the spontaneous gifts of self, like shared poems when and where least expected; the truthful ironic witty perspectives and humor amidst the non-stop craziness and perpetual absurdity. The smallest, sweetest, and most beautiful of details that emerge, impossibly, like tiny blue pansies in wet fall snow.