A pointillist morning with mist threaded through poplars in the valley, the fields glimpsed through a grainy veil. Veiled, seen through a glass darkly, which is a kind of metaphor for all of life from our limited yearning perspectives. I’m making a large pot of black beans simmering with diced carrots, celery, red bell peppers, onion, garlic and chard, tasty and substantial because another another farming co-op has closed and there are hungry people invited for lunch. I’m lucky to live in a country where hunger is so often literal.
And this morning a visit from a battered woman with a nice sober husband who keeps hitting her even though he no longer drinks and is very keen on quoting the Big Book to all and sundry. I’m with the writer Lundy Bancroft on this:
“An abuser doesn’t change because he feels guilty or gets sober or finds God. He doesn’t change after seeing the fear in his children’s eyes or feeling them drift away from him. It doesn’t suddenly dawn on him that his partner deserves better treatment. Because of his self-focus, combined with the many rewards he gets from controlling you, an abuser changes only when he feels he has to, so the most important element in creating a context for change in an abuser is placing him in a situation where he has no other choice.”
Birds flying across fields in mist, angular black shadows on the retina. The leaves of the poplars are yellow and semapphore through the veil like children waving.