In her isolation, my mother watches the news. She is 89 years old, and she is dealing with a watery eye that keeps her from doing her artwork and writing her poetry. She can write for a bit, but then her eye gets tired.

Same with reading. She loves to read, but lately only picks up a book for a short while before her weak eye won't let her take in the words.

In her independent living facility, from an abundance of caution, she and her elderly companions are now required to eat room-service meals. There are no programs to go to. They've all been canceled by the facility, and none of the program providers want to come to an old-folks home anyway, at least not in these dangerous times when our seniors tend to be the most affected by the illness that is commanding all of our attention.

“Mom has a saying, “You rest, you rust.” She is not the best at choosing not to rest and rust, especially now that she doesn’t even have to get up to go down to lunch.”

Mom has a saying, "You rest, you rust." She is not the best at choosing not to rest and rust, especially now that she doesn't even have to get up to go down to lunch. So, she and I recently worked out a plan. She'll walk two laps up and down her hallway each day, and, for each day she does that, she will call me up the next day, and I'll read her a new poem.

Two days ago, somehow we got onto Tennyson's "Locksley Hall." To our great surprise, we gleaned a new understanding of what the venerable Lord Alfred was telling us. In the poem, he paints a picture of the youthful illusion that the people of his time, including himself, were building. They were all aligned in working feverishly to create a lofty tower of magnificence: the pinnacle that modern civilization would reach along the path of newborn technological discoveries.

Even though he was giddy with the idealistic dream they all believed in during his time, he was confused. Somehow it didn't seem right. He looked back at the "primitives" who didn't have such an attachment to constant manipulation of the world around them. They seemed fit, flexible, courageous, wild, free. How did they seem to get along with the world so well?

Ah, well, he concluded, we're heading into the smog of London to pursue our magnificent illusion anyway, and there's nothing to be done about it. Better that we all die, one by one, than go back. After all, we can't go back, can we?

As Mom and I discussed our new understanding of this complex poem, we talked about going back: going back to times when people were in crisis earlier in her lifetime. She talked of the Depression. She told the story of my too-young father lying about his age to enlist in the Marines while World War II was still raging. She remembered Korea and Vietnam, when he was overseas at war, and she was raising three children on her own. She recalled ration books in the Thirties and how everyone helped each other out from their meager resources.

In our conversation, we went back to a time when "character-building" was a part of our society, closely woven in to every child's upbringing. My, how times seem to have changed!

We wondered if people today still had it in them to go back to living lives like the ones before the abundance and generosity of modern conveniences. How will we cope if we need to live a bit more primitively, if we no longer have all the world at our fingertips? Will we discover how to let go of the illusions, the cloud-castles we have built in the air? Will we open our doors, step out of our homes and help our neighbors who are in need?

My mother, grateful that I'm taking some time out of each of my busy days to share poetry, higher thought and emotional connection with her, isn't too worried about that. She's leaving that to me, to all of us in the prime of our lives.

Perhaps tomorrow, some Emily Dickenson will be on the menu for Mom. As for me, Lord Tennyson's questions and disturbing conclusions continue to echo in my ears and heart as I move forward in my life as a responsible adult in these changing times.

Initiated as a tradition-holder in the Nahua/Mexican weather worker lineage in May 2003 by don Lucio Campos de Elizalde of Nepopualco, Morelos, Mexico, Erin Everett is a weather worker, ceremonial leader, and traditional healer. She is known in Nahuatl as a quiatlzques and in Spanish as a tiempera. As are many in this tradition, she was struck by lightning in her youth, which is a known calling to this path. A native of western North Carolina, she and her colleagues work with weather in the Asheville, NC geographical region. More information about their work, tradition, and teachers can be found at seedsoftradition.org.

Cultivating everlasting human ways

Going Back to Locksley Hall

In her isolation, my mother watches the news. She is 89 years old, and she is dealing with a watery eye that keeps her from doing her artwork and writing her poetry. She can write for a bit, but then her eye gets tired.