69 Comments
Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Every day my morning routine includes reading the news, having breakfast, and taking a walk around my ordinary central Maine neighborhood. Today, as usual, I read the news, had breakfast, and took a walk around my neighborhood, where there is dirty snow and ice everywhere, and clean snow falling from the sky. As often happens when I take my quiet, solitary daily walk, this morning I struggled to manage a combination of tears and panic brought on by the news stories I had read before breakfast, even though they were no more horrifying or sad than the news stories I read yesterday or last week or last year. The fog is--the dementors are--everywhere, making every effort to suck the soul right out of us and leave us in irrevocable despair. Thank you, Sarah, for all the ways your powerful words and images, and your willingness to share them, remind us that we are not alone in this hard struggle to remain fully human and humane, and to have the courage to continue trying. I am grateful.

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I so look forward to your writing. Both the comfort and the pain. It's not only writing, it is art.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

From my deck I can see Southern Island, where Jamie Wyeth has a home. I met Andy Wyeth several times, once as a teenager on Hallowe'en. He came to the door and smiled, and he had greenish glow-in-the-dark teeth! Then a few years back I met him at the Dip Net, a tiny diner nearby, and it was his 90th birthday. I apologized for intruding and he said, no, sit down with us. I have a photo of the party somewhere.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

“The feeling, the feeling...” that’s the one thing you always deliver, mixing poetry with prose.❤️

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

“ I’ll walk through fog to describe what it hides, even if I’m walking alone.” Me too. And thank you for your realist soul.

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I frequently paint in Maine. Monhegan to Acadia. To me, Wyeth is a great master of using white. It is like a bare bleached-in-cold-sun bone white. Like a seagull skeleton on a barren beach.

Too much to handle sometimes.

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Jan 27Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Your words always make me feel as sane as is possible in our dire circumstances. As if I can at least feel solid ground under my feet as the fog cocoons me. Thank you.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

I never comment on newsletters, but this is an incredibly thoughtful piece of prose that reads like poetry and gives perspective to the world we helped create that we sit by and watch in horror, with our mouths agape like some helpless bystanders. Past generations would be marching in the streets. Thank you.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Poetry and politics are strange bedfellows but you somehow make both more accessible. Thanks.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

To me the fog suggests that we may need to call a timeout on life, if just for a few minutes. We can wait for the fog to clear, or burn off as you say. Then, things will hopefully clear up. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t! Reflection on things before taking action is a beneficial process!

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Beautiful writing ! I am so appreciative of your writing and knowledge.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Wow... I felt/feel this one in my core. I live in the Pacific Northwest and winter is an especially oppressive time. We have a mental condition that was initially diagnosed as a local phenomenon but I’m sure is not unique to us. The past 20+ years have been like Seasonal Affective Disorder all the time. War, illness, strife and death have seemed impossible to fight, much less escape. It’s possible to see through it occasionally, but remains ever present... always ready to smother us with dreary, gray fog. Every time you think it’s lifting it seems to return even thicker than before. It’s nice to know I’m not alone in feeling this way sometimes. Thank you for sharing.

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

"The falling leaves drift by the window

The autumn leaves of red and g̵o̵l̵d̵ (blue?)

I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long

And soon I'll hear old winter's song

But I miss you most of all my darling

When autumn leaves start to fall"

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Jan 26Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Poetry and prose serve equal functions in your writings. I was reminded also of Helga and her world; the bleakness but also the strength.

Thank you again for your perseverance, Sarah.

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founding

Amen. Thank you Sarah.

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Jan 27Liked by Sarah Kendzior

Your description of fog as "...a cloud that had landed on your head..." created an instantaneous flashback for me.

I attended Simon Fraser University in Burnaby, BC, Canada in the late 1980s. The campus is located on a high hill called Burnaby Mountain and, as with the rest of the West Coast, that can create some interesting weather phenomena.

One afternoon in late fall, early winter (I can't remember exactly when) I came out from my last class to find mists swirling around the buildings and trees. Because of its height, it can be hard to tell if you are experiencing fog that has risen all the way up from sea level, or clouds that have descended over the hilltop.

I walked to my car and began my drive home.

As I the road wound down towards the city the cloud became brighter and brighter, almost a golden tone. Suddenly I broke through bottom of the low hanging clouds to find myself facing due west into the setting sun. Above me the lower edge of the clouds were an almost flat ceiling. But what made the moment so memorable was what was below me.

I had broken into a thin layer of clear air. Above were the clouds, but below me, inverse to the clouds, was a flat "floor" of fog. The late afternoon sun, only minutes from setting for the day, was shining like a golden orb directly along this narrow corridor of clear air.

I kicked myself, because this was one of the few days I didn't have a camera with me (LONG before cellphones with cameras). So I simply drove on down into the fog. The light show I had experienced dropping through the clouds played out in reverse this time. And by the time I arrived home fifteen minutes later it was night.

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