There is a box of crayons dumped across my redwood table. Fifty choices of color. I choose magenta because I can make the word magnet out of its name. I need a magnet this morning to keep me in my desk chair and keep me honest. Honest looks like the two quarters it takes to wash my clothes, and then the two quarters it takes to dry my clothes. Honest is me loving my kittens by scratching their bellies, and me thanking Grams for bringing me a dead cockroach. Yes, I have a cockroach in my house that is now deceased. Disgusting.
I didn’t wake up and do cardio this morning at the gym. I wanted to wake up and write…two hours ago. I hit the snooze way too many times. Morning is always thick. Like wading through mud, forgetting the fact that the mud can be rejuvenating. I have never had a mud bath. I think of it as being too messy rather than life giving. Love can be messy, but I do invite it into my life.
Love is not messy today. It is a jingle in my head that repeats over and over again. It is the magenta crayon. I can color in a circle, deep color. A square is more formal, as is a rectangle. A triangle, though nicely pointed, does not suit me today. It is the circle in all its endlessness that catches my eye. Today, I remember that love is not a minimum of two glasses of water but rather a faucet turned on indefinitely. I have no water bill. There is no cost. I will not iron my pants today, but will revel in the design of wrinkles. A friend tells me I use too many metaphors. I can’t help myself today. Just like a glass of chocolate milk is sweeter than a regular glass of milk, I seek that perfect moment in writing where all is love.
I have not say at my computer for several days. Life is busy, but mostly I feel wordless. Not writer’s block, of which I don’t believe in, but wordless. I am the woman in the ruffled skirt who forgot to put her shoes on before stepping outside. She was so excited about attending the lecture on using GPS to wheel around town that she forgot this tiny matter. The heat of the pavement brought her to attention. Knowing she’d be late, she went inside and buckled on her boots. What is a couple of minutes late to an hour and a half lecture?
What is a couple minutes staring at a computer screen wanting to maneuver periods? I love that sentences end on a dot. And the pause of a comma leaves me lingering sweetly, and gives me the opportunity to dash to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Every time I leave my lap top computer, I have to close it for fear Grams or Annie will step in and dance on the keys. Have you ever really watched how a cat moves? They dance, don’t you think? I believe the saying “twinkle toes” was inspired by cats. Please correct me if I’m wrong
So begins another day. I am looking forward to what is new. I will walk out the door, shoes on, and sniff the air…no sign of rain, for which I am glad. I do know that Arizona needs rain, but I dislike getting wet especially when I’m carrying books. I almost always am carrying books.
Grams just turned my light off by pulling on the hassle. She hints that I am done because she wants my full attention. Farewell.
I surf behind shut eyes. The surf is good, doesn’t swallow me. I grab a ray of sun and breathe slowly. I awaken. Today is my anniversary of being sober for 21 years. TIme has moved like a circle of marbles; lean down, use the boulder to push the bumblebee out of the circle and wa-la, 21 years have passed. It has been a hard but good ride. The carousel has never quit on me and I’ve been able to ride every single one of the horses multiple times. Today, my horse is outrageously purple. I settle down into consciousness and thank God. The miracle is me and I’m aware of it. God and friends have seen to it that I don’t fall off the ride; today, I lean into my destiny and know which step to take next.
I have invited love into my life again after realizing love isn’t a package wrapped tightly in twine and thrown into the glove box of Guy’s, my ex. Love is free floating. Love doesn’t need to be wet. I am responsible for my love. My heart strings are taught and flexible and far reaching. I hold hands with a new man in my life and my eyelids flutter. I’m aware of his pulse. It surfaces as we kiss. We come up for air and share a meal. He with spaghetti and meatballs, me with salmon.
We say goodbye in early evening. I have a cut off; I need to take my medications and be in bed by nine. He respects this. I am so glad.
I surf my dreams hoping to dream about him. This doesn’t happen. I don’t need it to to know that he is deep in my life. We hold hands as the hummingbird feeds on red syrup. There will be a moon tonight and I will silently pray. Life is large and I am so blessed.
She doesn’t know how the drapes came to be zippered shut. But they did. And locked. His light got tied back behind his ears. The ball cap helped keep the light in its place. So when she met him that day for lunch, she was blind to the beauty he offered. No light pushed the sounds of love forward onto her plate of food. The meat was tough and the barbarian within signaled to her to take it into her own hands. Bite hard and pull ferociously at what remains outside the mouth. Just yesterday she accused him with small words of cheating. He assured her with bigger words that that was not the truth. At lunch it became all too much and he cried tears onto wilted lettuce. They left for home without finishing eating, her hand in his. She doesn’t know how the drapes came to be open before the window. In tender light she lifted her skirt and invited him to come home.
This poem is not my truth. Guy is never coming back. Nor would I invite him to. Third time cheating is quite enough. I will not become blinded by the love I still have for him. What we shared is over. It has been 6 months since I’ve seen him. I am free to shine in other places with other people. And I do shine. And I do love. My friends are fabulous.
Poem for your pleasure…..I hope
When the World Turns Blue
There is little to look at outside of water. Black Converse sneakers laced to the ankle begging to meet the earth halfway between the dream and a next step forward. The next step forward is hard as stale toast and as necessary as lips. Lips blow horns, blow trombones. Saxophones. Keep food from slipping past the teeth. Console. Welcome. Say good-bye. Sensuality. Sweet. So sweet. Even chapped they will whistle. Lovely. Remember this when the next step forward places you below water and you need a straw to breathe with. And the moon rolls around the track in a fifteen minute mile. Slowly. I float head above the water. Breasts. Midriff. Thighs. Knees. Shins. Imagine black Converse sneakers. Imagine God wearing black Converse sneakers in one of many incarnations. Imagine God.
I never know where the inspiration for a delightful day comes from. I’m awake enough to know when I see it, which is good because sometimes it is subtle. The following was not subtle.
I went to my mental health site to see the psychiatrist, whom I thought would be Sharon. No Sharon. Instead a Dr. Elliot. A man rather than a woman. Jeannie, the administration assistant, told me I would like him. When he came out to get me from the waiting room, he shook my hand and said “I am alive and well today.” He was following my blog!! And he ordered my book Mind Without a Home!
Once in his office, he showed me a card I had sent him. I had seen him before! And loved him. He’s a Southern gentleman who loves opera and classical music. And he loves what he does professionally. I sent him a card in thanks, wishing he could be my permanent doctor, but he is a visiting doctor.
I was hesitant to see a male doctor, and look who it was. I was jazzed. The morning reminded me that I don’t know what will come with the day, but often times it is better than I would have imagined.
Today is a new day. I hope to remain open to the experiences it will offer.
Good cheer to all.
I’m riding high at my computer after some deep breathing exercises. If my laptop could float, it would. And the keys would advance with invisible fingers writing something I can only guess about. “The air is fire-dry. Light a match, touch it to the carpeting and watch your hand jump. Make certain the kittens are boxed so they can be removed along with you from your home.”
I have never had fire in my home, although it is something I worry about. While at Stephens College in Columbia, MO, one of the dorms caught fire and destroyed most everything if not by fire, by smoke. My friend said her toothbrush reeked of fire. Such a small thing to catch smoke.
Although I am paranoid about having a fire, I cannot think of anyway my house would become lit unless it was intentional and by me. I like watching flames, but only the safe flames, the flames that are trapped in a fire pit. Their colors radiate and I am reminded of popsicles.
Today, I am safely sitting at my keyboard in my bedroom/study. Sure, I see an armadillo at rest on the windowsill in all the glory of its armor. But it’s only a flash. I see it as well as I see invisible fingers punching in the impossible. Why look at things from one reality? There are so many more possibilities. Hang onto the sky. Wrap a rope around the sun. Haul it in and think heat. Writing is partially about making heat.