farmette life 17

Oh, the time will come up
When the winds will stop
And the breeze will cease to be breathin'
Like the stillness in the wind
Before the hurricane begins
The hour that the ship comes in.
(Bob Dylan)

Journeys come to an end. Always. Even if you are a lifelong sailor, each voyage has a beginning and an end.  Your boat must touch shore.

Sometime, in the Caribbean Friday night, Ed's sailboat came into port in Puerto Rico.

Does a sailor feel relief? Or regret? Perhaps a sense of pride?

Ed always claimed that these voyages are life changing. Perhaps he is right, at least with respect to younger sailors, but at our age, there's not much that can affect the course we choose for our lives. True, when I travel, I always learn something new. If the destination is especially challenging, I learn more. But I have traveled all my life -- from rural postwar Poland, to within other poor and prosperous countries, to distant and vast continents. Going forward, no one trip will likely transform me anymore. It's not that I've seen it all, it's that I'm too formed to be transformed.

Ed will be within communication range again and though he will continue to live on the boat for a day or two, the big sail is done. Boat safely delivered to the southern climes. The captain will remain there, his family will join him, but the men who helped sail the catamaran will fly to their respective homes, transformed or not!


It's a very pretty day here, at the farmette.






I don't spend time reveling in its prettiness, but I take note of it, even as I'm still moving slowly. Rushing recovery is never a good idea. I should grocery shop. I don't grocery shop. I should visit my mother. She is 96 today! Neither of us thinks it's a good idea for me to cough my way into her apartment. I should tidy more. I do little of that.

I feed the animals,


 



Eat breakfast...





... and settle in for the rest of the morning on the couch.


In the afternoon, I play with Snowdrop.






When she is here with her brother, she is oftentimes distracted. She ignores most of the games that would have been her mainstay before he began joining us here after school. Today (Fridays she comes to the farmhouse alone), she goes back to that standard repertoire of make-believe play.






And, she thinks it to be a good day for painting.






Me, I'm just glad to be getting my voice back. It's rough to read book chapters when half the words you utter are without sound.

As I drop her at home and visit briefly with Sparrow, I think about how good this week has been for these grandkids. The days grow shorter, the weather stuns you with its cold, grandma hacks away all afternoon-long and yet they have thrived and blossomed. We feel overwhelmed by hurdles, kicks, stumbles. Kids, they just grow.