I wore all-black to church today. I’d asked after one of my friends in Ukraine and had gotten an anguished message back wondering where would they go, whether they would even live, how would they get through this.
I knew in my bones that only the color of mourning would do. And my very large, bright yellow sunflower gerdan: there have been Ukrainian refugees living next door to that church and I wanted them to feel seen. I wanted to bear witness to the importance of supporting the innocents whom American voters just sold down the river. It was my I Protest outfit. But anyway.
There are two people in that congregation who–well, one once showed me her official socks with that name on them.
The monthly senior potluck was this evening and I looked around and thought, hey, look–we’re not the youngest ones anymore!
People were chatting, the hostess was trying to get people to get started; Richard motioned me over to where he had a seat at a table ready for me.
Ms. Socks was to the other side.
Note that she and I do not discuss politics because it would do no good–but I have noted that as her guy’s behavior got worse and worse over these past few years she avoided me more and more, which is a shame, because other than that one (very big) thing I consider us old friends. More and more though with a sense of wistfulness and loss.
Why should I let him of all people call the shots in our personal lives. So I turned to her and asked her about her house and how the remodeling was going.
She seemed surprised that I would want to talk to her, which struck me as terribly sad, but answered my question and we went on to have a normal conversation like it should always be and she enjoyed a bit of my blueberry cobbler, too.
I think Bill of Penzey’s Spices has a point: Cook. Feed people. Love them.
It helped.