T
he birds are endless these days. Turkeys, blue jays, orioles, great blue herons, pluming, calling, hee hoo hoo ick ick ya ya ya. Their trills fill with glissandos, flights of spring paths, bounces.
On the full pink pesach moon, I am lonely, afraid. I walk, hugged by warm low light, find the Charles. I stare at the water’s milky reflection of clouds, trying to will myself into comfort. Watch the pods of people cross bridges, on bikes. Water usually helps, but it’s not seeming to settle today.
I call grandma. Can you tell me the story of how you and grandpa met? I ask, muffled through homemade bandana facemask.
He was a violinist, I made costumes.
My body smooths out, settles.
He asked me to play ping pong at the staff lounge. We met up by boat late at night all summer.
Phone calls are golden for storytelling. Storytelling is golden for healing. On the walk home, I’m listening to Joni Mitchell, thinking of my mom. I put my arms in the slots between lines of perfectly groomed hedges. I jump onto a small brick wall. Catch my body in glowing shadow on the smooth rounded Le Corbusier wall and twirl my fingers. I am dancing.
I dreamt of a tumbleweed last night. And that the tumbleweed was, itself, the coronavirus. A spiky spindle of dead and wandering wood, blowing and blowing in the wind. I watched it travel across many roads. I was terrified—it moved so swiftly. And then I was calm because I remembered, it will pass.
Martha is a photographer, writer, facilitator, and mover. Her work crosses disciplines and centers around looking closely, taking time, studying places, and always experimenting. She has worked in public housing communities, art therapy, museum education, and at a variety of interdisciplinary arts organizations. She is a current Master’s Student in Arts Education at the Harvard Graduate School of Education. 