December 16, 2025
Tuesday

I woke this morning late — past 8:00 — to a pewter sky and a temperature of 12°. I was in a lot of pain from whatever it is that is making the whole right side of my body seem like a bag of bowling balls I’m bound to drag along with every step. Getting dressed and getting downstairs seemed to take forever. I managed to make my First Cup and get myself to the table, where the stark white glow from the LED bulbs I am forced to use now that I’ve exhausted my stockpile of incandescent bulbs I built up two years ago did little to brighten my perspective. “i thank You God for most this amazing day,” I thought but did not speak, since the gratitude is meant for one who can read my heart. “Hello to your name.” (That was my daughter’s four-year-old version of “hallowed be thy name.”) I asked a birthday blessing on a friend from whom I am estranged (or, rather, who has estranged herself from me) and resolved to send a good wish and another offer of reconciliation later today. I heard the empty bird feeder rattle as a disappointed visitor hopped on and off — I’ll get to that today, I promised silently. Both God and the bird knew I probably wouldn’t.

When I finally opened my notebook and drew out the blank planner page for today, I wrote the date and the day, and then, under “Priorities,” I wrote

1. Holidailies
2. Pack up laundry for 5:00 pickup
3. Try to love the mutilated world.

That I inserted a line of poetry into a throwaway to-do list reminds me that I am indeed on the road to reclaiming my identity as a writer and a reader. That I rendered the line incorrectly reminds me that it takes time and patience and constant tinkering to arrive at the best way to express a thought.

The line is “Try to praise the mutilated world.” It’s from a poem by Adam Zagajewski, who was born in 1945 in Poland, roamed the world, taught at a number of universities, and wrote about “the presence of the past in ordinary life.” He died in 2021 in his homeland, and though he wrote in Polish, he is widely translated, and everyone who knows anything about contemporary poetry knows this poem. I wonder how it sounds to a native speaker. (“Native speaker of Polish” would describe my grandmother. She died when I was two. I have no recollection of her.)