Summer and the Summer Moon Above
Saturday gratefuls: Han Shan. His poetry. Shadow Mountain. The green green Mountains of home. China’s Mountains. Korea’s Mountains. Mt. Fuji. The sect in Japan that worships Mountains. The Mule Deer Doe eating Grass and Dandelions in my back last night. Joan and Alan. The Bread Lounge. Evergreen. The everlasting construction along its Lake. All detours, everywhere. Tom’s old fashioned thank you note.
Sparks of Joy and Awe: Joan’s house and property
One brief shining: Never had French toast like that six Texas toast sized slices stuffed with Nutella and chocolate small drops of chocolate on the top and syrup even syrup it was the chef’s choice for stuffed French toast and oh my I ate about a third and gave up turned it back over full.
Yeah. Alan and I had breakfast at the Bread Lounge and I ordered the stuffed French toast. Not gonna do that again. Thought I wanted something sweet as a counterpoint to my usual savory breakfasts with Eggs and chicken fried steak or bacon or tamales, a few too many potatoes. Maybe hot sauce.
We got caught up on this and that. CBE news. His life in the vertical cruise ship as he calls his apartment complex in central downtown Denver. Many puns later, he can’t stop, we left with a bag of pastries for Joan’s.
I’d never been to Joan’s house before though I’ve heard often about its daunting driveway. Which I thought was not so bad. Not curvy, not even that long compared to others. Anyhow her house sits on the crest of 27 acres of prime Colorado Mountain real estate looking west toward Evergreen, Mt. Blue Sky (formerly Mt. Evans), Mt. Berrigan and beyond. It’s a lovely and special location.
Her home is a beauty, too. All polished woods and black rafters, black painted wood here and there for contrast. Plate glass windows with the view toward Evergreen. A perfect house for a writer. I think Joan’s on her 18th or 19th published novel now.
Her husband Albert died last year at 96. Not sure exactly but 68 years of marriage. Somewhere in that range. We talk about grief from time to time before acting class begins. Yesterday she asked me brain fog.
I’ve only come to realize now, two and a half years after Kate’s death, I told her, how much brain fog I’d had. And that’s an exact metaphor. When it began to lift, I could see life again. With clarity. Before there was always a scrim, one I was not aware was there until it began to lift.
Jon gave the best metaphor for it. Recovering from the fog of grief mimics the slow rebounding of the North American Continent from the last Ice Age. It’s still underway, measurable especially in the Canadian tundra.
When Alan and I left, Joan told me she was going to mail me one of those rocks over there. She pointed to a rock wall she or Albert had built near her front door. It was what, she said, I had lifted from her mind. I reached back for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
