Susan Dixon

“And what did Catarine say to you?”

“I don’t remember clearly …”

“Because she never makes much sense,” Cristophe interrupted.

“Something about someone who knew me and would teach me. She acted like she already knew who I was. Marie Villiers said I was to pay no attention to her.”

While the flu had hold of me, I couldn’t remember the names of things. It was like my brain had just stopped dealing with minor details as it re-ordered itself. That frightened my daughter who began to ask for instructions on paying bills. I took naps.

In the week between Christmas and New Years I had Plans. I reviewed my 2022 calendar and made notes in the one for 2023. January 2022 had virtually no notes at all except for little To Do lists for a one-week writing retreat I took at an artists foundation outside of town. It was only about 10 miles away but farther than I had been in two years and a nice way to remind myself that I might have chosen not to travel but I could still write. So, I decided in 2023 I would kick up my game and actually finish the complete draft. Finish it enough to send it to an editor by the end of the month. Starting Monday, January 2.

Trying to understand the 12th century from the vantage point of the 21st is like trying to imagine the life of one of those organisms in the depth of the ocean. We can’t do it. Too much has been lost.