This world of dew
Is only the world of dew —
And yet…..oh and yet…..

– Issa Kobayashj, written on the death of his little daughter

I had to move very hastily last September, and all our stuff has been haphazardly stored at my parent’s house in Gainesville, waiting for an unknown time when I am not desperately poor and I have an actual house again.

I spent the last few weeks sorting through and letting go of even more to be able to fit everything into a small spare room half filled already with my parent’s furniture. It was even easier this time to let go.  I have already lost so much.  Old memories came back to me – the close, sooty smell of the old kitchen, the dust, the cobwebs in the corners. It made me feel queasy.

A dish I used to use at parties reminded me of when parties and celebrations were always happening at my home. A more prosperous time, when I had more to share than homegrown tea and my own thoughts. 

Memories spoke to me out of old journals.
Flipping through I remembered how hard and unhappy my old life was – the lack of any kind of help or support, the crushing workload, the constant emotional drain, the sabotage. I was constantly exhausted, always ill, deeply unhappy, and grasping at little things to find beauty and happiness in my life. It amazes me how happy and healthy and free I feel as I move through my days — days nonetheless pinched by extreme poverty and intensely athletic physical work in the crushing heat. Our life now is a little like another Issa haiku:

My home is so poor
Even the resident flies
Keep their family small

Looking back through our things, it was like a snapshot of our lives a year ago, frozen there, just how it was before the move. Everything is so different now. I leafed through Rose’s Manga collections she no longer would read, Clo’s drawings and little plastic toys she’s outgrown. In just twelve cycles of the moon the river of life has rushed us along so, so far… all these things that meant so much at the time that they were packed away, are forgotten and left behind like old homework.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Life sometimes seems to be a constant raveling and unraveling, made into a slightly different pattern each time, but always left unfinished and undone. Things you think are so turn out to not be so, and things you think you can count on crumble like a house of cards. What is real or true in this life?

My garden is recovering from being moved. People are coming back from vacation. Things are moving forward, slowly. It amazes me how much each little new leaf and each little blossom mean to my life right now.

I am planting seeds now for the fall garden. It feels good and hopeful starting off this next season, feeling like I might someday feel comfortable again.

Each seed holds a life and a death, a hope and a sorrow. As soon as life begins, a death does too. The portals in and out of this world. I handle them carefully,  knowing their power.