Two nights ago I finally did what I had been avoiding for months: I looked for a blogging friend’s obituary. The sad news is I found it. Some of you might know Nancy Jo Anderson aka Zazamataz on WordPress. Her blog is still up at zazamataz.wordpress.com, but she has not posted since December 11, 2024.
According to her obituary, Nancy died on March 14, 2025. She was only 62. Nancy was open about her illness. In her post of April 24, 2024 (“I’m back. Again.”), she explained that she had both COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease) and CHF (chronic heart failure). My oldest sister Charlotte had both of these conditions, and it was the COPD that killed her. I imagine it was the same with Nancy.
I hadn’t known Nancy for long. I “met” her through Ally Bean’s blog The Spectacled Bean, and quickly came to cherish her friendship, her stories, her humor, her openness. She didn’t shy away from writing about being sad and depressed, her struggles to get proper care, and her many “visits” to the hospital.
Her humor was a gift. She would write about her hospital stays with such comedy that I’d often laugh out loud, forgetting for those moments the fear and pain she most likely felt while it was happening.
And she was generous. In May 2023, she organized the “the great moose giveaway.” It was a clever way to clear out her house and send out a little love to the world. I was game for anything that involved yarn (naturally). But what I got from Nancy was so spot-on, I was speechless when I saw it.
This ceramic bluebird is more precious to me than anything else Nancy could have sent me. I have it sitting on a desk next to the loveseat where I usually have my morning tea. Seeing the bluebird, remembering Nancy, is a nice way to start my day.
I could have “looked for” Nancy long before Saturday night. I thought of it often, but sometimes you don’t want to confirm what you already know.
Although she’s physically gone, I hope some of you might visit her blog. Her spirit lives on in her writing and in each of us whose lives she touched.
I was going to do a “Macro Monday” but the photo below isn’t a macro and there’s story behind it anyway.
What you see here is a baby bluebird. A live one, fortunately.
A bluebird chick in the hand.
First, some context: a few months ago we set up a bluebird box in our front yard. Well, it’s on the other side of our driveway, a narrow stretch that is bordered street side with azaleas and our 8-foot fence opposite the street. Apparently, it’s a good spot because a pair of bluebirds have moved in and started their SECOND clutch a couple of weeks ago. We’ve never saw the first clutch of bluebirds, but during the first and with this second, we’ve enjoyed seeing Ma and Pa Bluebird take turns bringing juicy worms to the box.
Today, when I arrived home after attending a yoga class and grocery shopping, my husband came out to help me with my loot.
Then he saw the tail end of a gray rat snake hanging from the opening in the box. He quickly went into action.
He grabbed the tail but the snake wouldn’t budge. Nothing to be done but pull up the box (it’s attached to a long pole) and see if we can get the snake out.
SNAKE WARNING: the next photo shows the snake.
Gray rat snake in a bluebird box, with a bluebird chick.
Son of a b———. We could see the snake had a grip on a chick. My husband upended the box and the snake and two chicks fell out.
The snake wasted no time in slithering away. It was obvious one chick was dead, probably smothered, but the other one (see photo above) was alive.
Then, when we righted the box, we discovered two other (alive) chicks!
I slipped the chick back into the box, we placed the pole back in the ground, and then my husband put an apron-like baffler around the pole.
We already had a squirrel baffler on the pole and thought that would be enough to deter snakes. We thought wrong.
Here’s hoping that Ma and Pa Bluebird recommence with feeding their youngun’.
Meanwhile …
Wendy is doing quite well. Two weeks now with no vomiting or diarrhea. We started her on a special diet, for now mixing it with regular food, and she’s been licking her bowl clean. The last drug she’ll come off is Cerenia, for nausea. She’ll stay on PredisOLONE for life.
We have three more B12 shot appointments, but those are in-and-out, no waiting around for the vet.
Monday evening I received this lovely bluebird in the mail. The bluebird from a gift from Zazzy, a blogging friend I’ve never met and only recently became acquainted with.
I was quite moved to receive a gift and moved to tears that it was a bluebird. As many of you know, bluebirds are special to me as they remind me of people I’ve love and lost, like my stepdad, his son, and my sister.
This little guy is staying indoors, but I thought he would photograph nicely in natural light.
Thank you, Zazzy, for warming my heart.
Writing
Just over a week ago I took a major leap and signed up for A Year of Writing Dangerously, hosted by Summer Brennan on Substack. I’ve been reading Summer’s work for a couple of years now and have taken her Essay Camps a couple of times. Before I signed up, I hadn’t been writing for a couple of months, at least not writing much of substance and it was starting to grate on me. But I was also depressed. Yup, that dark demon just won’t leave me alone. He likes to show up just when I’m starting to feel good about life.
So it might seem contraindicated for me to join an intensive writing practice for a whole year. But I’ve been paying attention to Summer and the community building up around her, because of her. I know I’ll be in a safe place for writing. For one thing, I don’t have to share anything I write, ever. The focus is on developing a practice, finding those gems buried deep in the mounds of seemingly nonessential words, and then making them shine and sparkle. On our own. Summer will guide us through example and recommended readings. On Substack, we have something like a chat room where we can account for ourselves in whatever way we want. But we don’t have to share our writing, and I like that.
For now, I want my writing to be for my eyes only. The writing I struggle with, that is. Book reviews, photo essays, things like that, can go out into the public sphere. That’s the whole reason for writing those. But right now, I need to just be writing and not worrying about whether my writing is boring or interesting.
Today is Day 7, and I have written for seven days, writing about what I see and hear and remember. Ranting, which I still do a lot of, is not part of my daily writing assignment. It doesn’t count except to clear my head so I can write intentionally.
So here I am. Zazzy’s bluebird couldn’t have arrived at a better time.
Look closely and you’ll see my reflection on the bluebird’s breast.
Yes, indeed, last week we ventured out to our favorite place: St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge. It was a beautiful day, and the moon again made an appearance. You might have to squint to see it in the below photo, but it’s there.
View of the moon (that dot almost dead-center of the photo) from one of our favorite rest stops.
While out and about, we met an interesting guy who was hiking the Florida Trail. I wrote about the experience for Crow’s Feet, a Medium publication. You can read it here: Compelled by Grief, Compelled by Love. I’m not enamored of the title and wish I had spent more time tweaking it, but it does sum up what drives this particular person to hike hundreds of miles.
What I like best about biking in the afternoon is the light. The sun casts a golden glow along the treetops as we ride back toward the car.
The road frequently traveled.
I’m still going on my morning walks although I missed two mornings in a row this week: one because I went instead to a yoga class, and the other because I needed to pick up a CD of my MRI images. It was one of those little tasks peculiar to the medical-industrial complex that annoy me until I can complete it. The orthopedist that I’m scheduled to see in March wants it. Goodness. I am not sure why these facilities cannot share images as well as reports, but apparently, it’s still 1999 around here.
This morning I really had to drag myself outdoors, but once out there, I kept walking. I saw two red-shouldered hawks initiate a mating dance, but then they saw me. I can only imagine what curses flew through their raptor brains. They flew off separately, but in the same direction. Probably to find a more private tree.
Next, I saw a bluebird. Not a rare sighting around here, but this lovely guy hung out on a power line, giving me a few minutes to admire his orange and white breast, and then the breathtaking brilliant blue of his back and wings as he turned and flew off. No photos of hawks or bluebirds because I was too busy living in the moment.
I had lunch with a former coworker the other day. I hadn’t seen her face to face in almost two years. We were in that enviable group of 60-pluses and sent home to work early in the pandemic. I retired last March and hadn’t seen her at all since then. She still works with my former employer, and she filled me in on all the drama. Fortunately, she’s a person with a lot of interests so we also talked about knitting, cooking, traveling, gardening, and bicycling, in no particular order. She let me know–a few times–that they (the office) have money and, if I’m casting about for something to do, they’d love to hire me back on contract.
It’s a lovely boost to the ego to still be wanted, to know that a special group of people would want to work with me again.
My response, after ignoring the first couple of offers: “I know I’m retired, but I feel like there are not enough hours in the day to do all that I want to do.” That’s it. I’m not casting about for something to do. I’m casting about but for how to do what I want to do and still get enough sleep. To that end, I signed up for a free Bullet Journal Workshop at my local independent bookstore. I’m not sure if I really want to take the workshop, or if I just want an excuse to purchase one of the bundles being offered for use at the workshop: a Leuchtturm Journal (style of your choice), 5 Pastel Highlighters, 7 Colored Pen Pack, Letterpress Stamp Set and Ink. What do you think? Do I need another journal? More pens and highlights?
The workshop will be next Saturday so I still have a whole week to continue practicing procrastination.
In the meantime, here’s Wendy bathing and playing with her blanket, the same blanket in which she was brought home about 8 1/2 years ago.
I’ve been adrift lately, casting about on some infinite ocean in a small dingy … without oars. A sense that my life is not my own, at least between 8 and 5, Monday through Friday. The child in me rants and rages, risks rocking the boat and drowning. The adult in me stares down at the water, searching for mermaids. The child cries and bangs her head against the seat. The adult peers at the horizon, embracing the earth’s curvature despite the deep-seated fear of falling off the edge of the world. The child pouts and fantasizes about abrupt departures should this boat ever get to land. The adult lies down on her back and gazes up at the clouds, marveling at their cottony and colorful expressions.
When the going gets tough, the adult grabs the child’s hand and turns to nature.
But first.
Earlier this week, I took a walk over to one of the larger ponds (or lakes as the developers prefer them to be known). As usual, I was looking for trash, which I found. But I also found this … a wonderland of sorts. What looks like a river is merely a stream only a few inches wide. I felt like Gulliver standing next to it. As I walked around, I kept my eyes focused on the ground so I wouldn’t step on any Lilliputians.
My inner child’s imagination took root (pun intended) and I imagined myself a boatman on this mighty river, or an explorer slashing her way through a tropical jungle. In my imagination, I saw before me a humongous body of water (not), and I had to be mindful not to fall into the deep crevasses that scarred the earth.
The adult in me wished I knew more of botany and could explain this lush vegetation that would not be seen except for the drought. And I wondered at how Nature–with her cyclical bountifulness and barrenness–has a purpose in everything she does.
Then it rained steadily for two days. I went out again.
You might have to squint, but yes those are the bathing beauties (aka turtles) that I look forward to seeing on my walks around the smaller ponds. They always slip into the water when I’m on the same side of the pond as they. The third photo is of a depression that only had grassy vegetation for several weeks, until this recent rain. Now water fills Nature’s bowl. A group of wood storks enjoyed the sun on the other side of this new pond, too far away for me to get a decent photo.
And then there was Friday. I almost didn’t go to work as I had been low energy all week, dragging myself from one meeting-filled day to the next. But I expected it to be a mellow day, with a chance to visit the ponds and the turtles and the birds.
The child raged when she was told that she would have to spend all of the coming week, 8 hours each day, sitting in a call center, manning phones, reading off a script that might or might not satisfy the caller. After almost a month of looking the other way, Florida has deigned to acknowledge the threat of coronavirus, that maybe–just maybe–providing some (hopefully accurate) information is better than no information. COVID-19 (as the coronavirus is also known) is in the U.S. and the public will want information.
I am not a health care worker. I am not an epidemiologist. I am not a scientist. All I know about COVID-19 is what anyone who reads the New York Times or the Washington Post or Reuters or The Guardian knows. That said, I just might know more than the White House administration.
Still. My inner child raged within me while my outer adult sat stoically as my duties were explained to me. Then I said, “I hate telephones.” Granted, I had “volunteered” myself to be assigned to a call center in case of a natural disaster, but I did that only because I was told to sign up for something.
It’s not that I don’t want to help people. I do like helping people, and you can read about one recent experience I had: When a Stranger Asks You for Help. I just have some trepidation when it comes to being “voluntold,” treated as if I were untrained personnel in the military and am now being called up for active duty. In the past when I’ve had to take calls from the public on behalf of my workplace, I’ve often felt pathetic, armed with only enough information to frustrate both me and the caller.
Enough of my self-pitying. After the child had exhausted her tantrum, thankfully deep within me while I stood at my window gazing at the blue sky, I decided it was time to go out. I had only walked up the street when I was given a gift. A sure-fire way to lift my spirits and bring balance back into my world is a sighting such as this:
I am grateful to this bluebird for positioning himself so close to the sliver of moon and then holding his pose long enough for me to get a good photo. (This photo is a cropped enhancement courtesy of my husband.)
Sights like this make me feel like crying, but in a good way.
Don’t weep for me, dear Reader. Eh, if the volume of calls is less than expected, I’ll be sent back to my office and will (no doubt) complain about that.
Just ask Maxine. “Talk to the paw,” she says!
You can help, dear Reader, by taking necessary precautions as outlined by the CDC (click here). At the very least, don’t be like one of my coworkers and sneeze into your hand during a meeting and then use that hand to pass items around the table. Just sayin’.
Poetry is like pornography: I know it when I see it. Or read it if you want to be picky. Or maybe it’s an acquired taste, something you have to be trained to learn to like. Gin martinis might be an acquired taste, but in my case, I took to a gin martini the way a thirsty cat takes to a water fountain.
In any case, for most of my writing life, I’ve avoided poetry, especially poetry that rhymes. Although I do like musical lyrics and most of those rhyme. I’m hedging here because I read a slim book of poetry not too long ago and I want to review it. The problem is, I’d rather just share the poems. But I can’t afford to send each of you a copy so you’re stuck with my attempt at a review. I hope you enjoy it. Even more, I hope you buy this book.
***
Bird Light is a collection of lyrical meditations on birds and things like birds, like life. The poems are by Elizabeth Cohen, whose collection of short stories, Hypothetical Girl, I reviewed last year. The lovely line drawings are by Aliki Barnstone, a woman of many gifts. The combination of Elizabeth’s poetry and Aliki’s drawings make Bird Light a transporting, transformative experience.
I am a bird lover, particularly of raptors, and so a poem like “The Red Tailed Hawks of Colesville New York” moved me with its simple play of joy and sadness: joy of seeing a couple of hawks christened Spunk and Spike, their closeness and playfulness; the sadness when one day only one is sighted and then, later, neither.
Intermingled with poems about peacocks, red-tailed hawks, bluejays, owls, cranes, red-crested flickers, and many other birds, are poems that read like mini-memoirs, a life spent and described by area codes and zip codes, from being a daughter to having a daughter. I am transported, almost literally it seems, from the red dust and mesas of the southwest to the Flickers and grackles of the northeast.
In particular, I felt transformed by the utter beauty and vulnerability of “Bluebird”: a tattoo of a bluebird to mark a broken heart at 22, except the tattoo is slightly off being on the right breast and not directly on the heart. And yet,
It hovered over the death beds of each of my parents,
And for nine months it glided over the soft,
unconnected bones of my daughter’s head.
Bluebirds are very special to me, being the favorite bird of my deceased stepfather and the favorite bird of his son who died in his early 30s from cancer and who sighted a bluebird once from his window and told his father that God must have wanted to keep him alive a little longer just to see the bluebird. Now I can’t see a bluebird without saying a little prayer for Ken and Tim. And this poem, “Bluebird,” by Elizabeth adds to that pleasant pang I get whenever a bluebird flies in front of me.
The title poem, “Bird Light,” makes its appearance almost halfway through the volume. She starts with,
When my marriage was over
the birds began
and I think to myself that she must have been writing these poems all along, probably refining them a little bit each time until there was nothing left to add or take away, until they were contained and perfect.
One thing ends inside your life
and there is an opening for something new
Your eyes start over, widen toward a periphery
I cling to these three lines and think, this is Bird Light, the “something new” that comes when you allow an opening. Studying birds, sorting your life by area codes and zip codes, a pattern seems to emerge suggesting that everything goes on as it should, or as it will, toward “The Yes”:
had a glass of chilled maybe
with some toasted perhaps
***
I highly recommend Bird Light by Elizabeth Cohen. Pick up a copy from Amazon and enjoy some time with the birds and Elizabeth and Aliki.
Marie at 1 Write Way 