Root bound with Margie

Inspired by the book I sent her about the work of Hilma af Klint, Margie tried her hand at abstract drawing. Her picture is a series of lightly-penciled spirals, winding into each other. She showed it to me on our video call, but I couldn’t get a good shot of it. She calls it “Root Bound.” Here’s what she says about it:

“It’s what happens to old plants, and it’s happening to me. The roots curl in on themselves. You find yourself digging into the same soil, circling around, and the nourishment of that soil grows thin. It’s a combination of being 94 and living with Covid-19.  The memories are beautiful, and I’m thankful for them, but they are wistful because they’re past. And then I’m dizzy when bending over, limited when walking, memory’s shot, fingers losing their grip, even as I’m drawing these curling roots. Drawing is not satisfying. Words come closer to saying what I'm trying to say, but words only suggest it. I’m laughing at the whole show, my show, the whole show. What crazy primates we all are!"

That was the perfect segue. We had avoided talking about the election for nearly an hour, but toward the end of the call we asked each other how we’re going to spend the evening. She’s going to turn on the news at 5 p.m. I’m not planning to turn it on till at least 8 p.m. I don't want to listen to pundits manufacturing more anxiety than I have already when the truth is they know no more than I do about what's happening in this moment. I’m watching raindrops pearl on my windows, watching yellow leaves blur, fall. 

Sue and I had planned to spend this night together, but now it gets dark before her granddaughter goes home, and Eliana cherishes her time with her grandma. So I’ll stay home. We’ll phone each other. I remain curious about what will unspool. It could be anything from Civil War to a whimpering.

I think of the Carl Sandburg poem, “Four Preludes on Playthings of the Wind.” 

Apologies for violated line breaks, this part: 

It has happened before.  
Strong men put up a city and got  a nation together,
And paid singers to sing and women to warble: 
We are the greatest city,  the greatest nation,  
Nothing like us ever was. 

Until it wasn't.