truth: household chores bore me. they are like chisels slowly chipping away at my foundation of creativity. they are fleas in my bed of contentment. they are rusty spots consuming my sense of freedom. they are mold on my ceiling. they are holes in my tires.
in short, i do not like doing them.
yes, they are boring and repetitive. more than that, they suck time that i would rather use to write a novel, dance wild and loud, walk fast down green trails, plant a garden to feed me, dream about the future, work on projects that give back to me as much as i give to them.
work? chores are work. yes, but they are boring work. while it can be rewarding to vacuuuum a rug and see all the parakeet feathers and lego pieces disappear (especially if you use a shop vac because you can suck up much bigger items too like avocado skins, broken pencils and things-you-can-no-longer-identify), the act of vacuuummming becomes boring because it has to be done so often. by me. many times a week.
yes, the gripe goes to a deeper level here. it's not the just the hum-drum factors, it's the no-fair factor too. in the part of my mind that does emotional math -you have one too- if there are four people peeing in a toilet, that means each person cleans the toilet once a week. this is so reasonable to me, that my emotional math brain says i should only have to state this one time - everyone will see the logic- including the 4 year old and voila! toilet cleaning chore has been reduced by 75%, happiness factor increased exponentially more.
while i certainly don't do all the chores around the house i do enough to feel resentful about it at times. typically when this begins to happen, i step back. i do less and it passes. sometimes i don't even see the gray haze drop into my heart. i just keep doing stuff i don't really want to do.
until a sign appears.
i'm big on signs. i count the number of birds in a flock as it flies over my head. i count twice to make sure i get it right, then i see if that number reminds me of something or i add the digits of the number together. ok, i do both. thirteen geese. small son was born on the 13th. 1+3=4. four directions. four corners. family of four.
i also flip open to random pages of books to see what words the world is offering.
i turn on the radio to random stations (am often rewarded by Journey or Bon Jovi more often than is statistically possible).
i pull tarot cards.
i find rocks.
i watch.
recently i was sweeping. a chore made tolerable by the rhythm and my magical broom purchased at the Oregon County Fair four years ago. here's how i sweep. i sweep everything that is on the floor, clothes-toys-books, into a big pile and then i yell "does anybody want any of this?" my boys come scampering over. they paw through the dusty pile and retrieve marbles, coins, hair ties, and such. i stop them from eating anything, and i rarely offer any reasoning to keep anything they haven't self-selected. i scan the pile for earrings and it all goes into the black metal dust pan. then i dump into the trash or recycling depending on how green i feel.
but this time- one thing stuck to the dust pan. i shook. still there. i look down, squinting since i broke my glasses, i see a small, white rectangular magnet. it's one of those popular poetry magnets. i got a set as free swag from a company we sell where i work. it's all inspirational words for women. i thought i had given the set away until i found them on the fridge, apparently this one had left the nest.
delight.
now, i could stop the story here and you'd get it. you'd be happy and think "cute."
but i couldn't. the message was too trite. "delight in taking care of your family. delight in having a floor to sweep. delight in your life of domestic bliss."
no.
i thought- maybe the meaning of delight held more for me. i attempted to decode the word by trying to remember what the prefix "de" means. but i couldn't...so i thought of words that have that prefix:
depend
defense
decode
defrost
decipher
when i tried to apply the implied mean to "delight" i kept coming up short. "de" in defrost seems to imply to "do away with the frost" so how does that translate to "delight?" and what is the inspirational sign as it applies to sweeping? decode- you are breaking apart the code. this also implies kind of a negative, but accurate definition if i were to assume that "delight" means taking the light away and that's what chores do to me.
i know that i could have gooooooggled it, but that pretty much would have sucked the soul out of my quest.
i was resigned to just going back to the original cute ending. in fact, that's what i was going to do until i started to type. then i realized what "delight" referred to wasn't the typical "something that brings you joy,"
no.
it's about bootsy collins, paisley pants, platform shoes and slide whistles. you feel me?
Deee-Lite.
groove is in the heart.
and i think maybe she sings something about a succotash.
then the sign appears.
basically, no matter what damn chore i am doing, no matter how damn often i do it. if i blast Deee-Lite i will enjoy the chore. i will dance, i will sing, i will do that little move with the leg kick, head tilt, hands swing. and i will do my best to force anyone around me to do it with me.
because the groove is always in the heart- even when my hands are in the cold dish water trying to unclog the beans before they ferment there and bring the summer swarm of fruit flies.
sing
it
baby.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Friday, May 24, 2013
collapse
just when you think you are getting to the heart of it, the deep place of discontent in a situation that feels so murky and dank- whoooosh! - the world provides you with a perfect example of why you need to shut-the-hell-up.
i needed this.
for weeks, i have had a inner moping going on. this little irk' of a troll hunched under my breast plate, t'sking and sighing about every little thing.
-those cleans clothes have been on the couch for three days.
-the morning glory are back. curse them.
-the truck needs the oil changed. again.
even as i am totally irritated with the troll, let's call her Prissy, i still manage to give her a voice. a voice that i listen to. a voice that i totally despise and completely distrust - and yet, i listen to her. i talk back to her. i conspire with Prissy, the hunching troll under my breast plate.
which only proves to me that i am even more of a troll than her.
i mean, who gives a troll that kind of power? if i met a troll, besides being completely terrified and wanting to believe jim henson was somehow in charge of it, i'm fairly certain i would doubt everything that came out of her drooling mouth. but, in the wicked way of my brain when she says, "no one really knows you, so they can't really appreciate you." i nod in agreement and <sigh> go on trudging along, dragging my wounded Achilles heal, all decorated up for bonus points (stay tuned for that story).
back to the whoosh.
i am mid-sentence, allowing Prissy to run my mouth to a human ear - a mistake, even when it's called "venting"- when the human is distracted by her husband reporting something ridiculous, like "the I-5 bridge over the Skagit River has just collapsed."
um, no. not that bridge. i drive over that bridge all the time. it's perfectly safe. it's made out of steel and concrete and cars are always on it. so, no. that didn't happen.
but just in case, let's google that.
there it is. this chunk of bridge in water. see the people? they are on top of their cars. waiting in a jungle of bent metal for someone to get them. to be honest, i have imagined my car winding up in the Skagit. i drive over the Skagit, on a much older bridge, several times a day. we live in the flood plain, less than 1/2 mile from a curve of the river. almost every errand i run involves going over a bridge that spans the Skagit. i have i actually thought "remember to roll down the windows" and like a checklist of Things To Do When Your Car Goes Into The River.
like anyone would ever need that.
even as i clearly don't want to wind up in the river, i imagine it. i don't want to feel the seemingly solid ground sink underneath me in a chorus of screeching steel and snapping cables. i don't want to feel murky river water rush into my windows and make the feather around my rear view mirror float, my clothes billow, my heart race. i don't want to meet the troll under the bridge. or become her.
and there sit those stranded people. there are hunched there, wet from scrambling out of the cold water, atop of the honda, looking up at the helicopters, seeing the crowd thicken along the banks, feeling their skin slowly warm under a persnickety sunbeam - but still their brain is blank except for one pervasive thought:
thank you.
i needed this.
for weeks, i have had a inner moping going on. this little irk' of a troll hunched under my breast plate, t'sking and sighing about every little thing.
-those cleans clothes have been on the couch for three days.
-the morning glory are back. curse them.
-the truck needs the oil changed. again.
even as i am totally irritated with the troll, let's call her Prissy, i still manage to give her a voice. a voice that i listen to. a voice that i totally despise and completely distrust - and yet, i listen to her. i talk back to her. i conspire with Prissy, the hunching troll under my breast plate.
which only proves to me that i am even more of a troll than her.
i mean, who gives a troll that kind of power? if i met a troll, besides being completely terrified and wanting to believe jim henson was somehow in charge of it, i'm fairly certain i would doubt everything that came out of her drooling mouth. but, in the wicked way of my brain when she says, "no one really knows you, so they can't really appreciate you." i nod in agreement and <sigh> go on trudging along, dragging my wounded Achilles heal, all decorated up for bonus points (stay tuned for that story).
back to the whoosh.
i am mid-sentence, allowing Prissy to run my mouth to a human ear - a mistake, even when it's called "venting"- when the human is distracted by her husband reporting something ridiculous, like "the I-5 bridge over the Skagit River has just collapsed."
um, no. not that bridge. i drive over that bridge all the time. it's perfectly safe. it's made out of steel and concrete and cars are always on it. so, no. that didn't happen.
but just in case, let's google that.
there it is. this chunk of bridge in water. see the people? they are on top of their cars. waiting in a jungle of bent metal for someone to get them. to be honest, i have imagined my car winding up in the Skagit. i drive over the Skagit, on a much older bridge, several times a day. we live in the flood plain, less than 1/2 mile from a curve of the river. almost every errand i run involves going over a bridge that spans the Skagit. i have i actually thought "remember to roll down the windows" and like a checklist of Things To Do When Your Car Goes Into The River.
like anyone would ever need that.
even as i clearly don't want to wind up in the river, i imagine it. i don't want to feel the seemingly solid ground sink underneath me in a chorus of screeching steel and snapping cables. i don't want to feel murky river water rush into my windows and make the feather around my rear view mirror float, my clothes billow, my heart race. i don't want to meet the troll under the bridge. or become her.
and there sit those stranded people. there are hunched there, wet from scrambling out of the cold water, atop of the honda, looking up at the helicopters, seeing the crowd thicken along the banks, feeling their skin slowly warm under a persnickety sunbeam - but still their brain is blank except for one pervasive thought:
thank you.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
hell yes
the young son has begun preschool. not a cooperative preschool where i am down the hall kneading bread - which i miss. but a preschool where i walk him up the three concrete steps, sign my initials on the sheet, kiss/hug, kiss/hug, kiss/hug, kiss/hug and then walk out into the afternoon with three hours to spend with the big son which i wholeheartedly enjoy.
today we saw a movie. in the middle of the afternoon. it was an awful movie- another million dollar mess of a good book, but the flying baboons were terrifying. something the 10 year old remarked about several times over dinner.
the thing i like about the preschool is the same thing that i dislike about most schooling settings: the rules. as a montessori preschool there are very specific routines in place. consistent expectations. this now, that later. repeat.
it both lures me in and horrifies me. it speaks to the part of me that wants to always have the scissors tucked into the sewing basket for speedy retrieval and disgusts the whimsy gal who is too distracted by the sound of migrating geese outside to take the extra ten steps back to the bathroom to put the nail clippers away.
as a mom, i have never mastered the art of routine. honestly, i don't completely believe that "children crave routine" either. i think adults crave obedient children and routine is the quickest way to train a child. or a baboon, especially if you want them to do something completely unnatural like fly or go to sleep alone in a dark bedroom.
so, i'm conflicted often. i do enjoy watching my son sit down and do his "coffee work" with precision and pride. the way he rolls the place mat up so tightly, like it's a tortilla to be dipped in salsa, makes me smile. his tiny fingers on a tiny dropper as he polishes a wooden dolphin sculpture with a q-tip and cotton ball- its melts me.
at the same time, i am equally thrilled when he attempts to put his slippers in his cubby by flipping them off of his foot toward the ceiling- rather than picking them up, stacking them together like a sandwich and gently placing them above his name. i am thrilled because this small deviation thrills him. i know i should be alarmed that he likes to deviate, but i am not in the least.
i suppose i see it as being himself. liking himself. putting his own thoughts and whims on a slightly higher shelf than what others expect of him. and i want him to continue to be that independent and assured. i want him to hold onto a spark of individuality midst the herd. if following the rules leads to being normal- veer from that path, son.
just this morning, as we dashed out the house, he saw me eating a banana and was inspired. he attempted to pull one from the bunch, but as you know, that's tricky.
"hey mom, get me a banana!" he called in a sing-song voice of mock authority. typically, i would have just handed one over or maybe said back "Git your own banana, monkey boy!" in some kind of East coast slang if the mood struck. but because he is in school and we are "working on asking" i prompted him, "are you asking me to help you get a banana?"
he looks at me with this "i know what you are doing" look. he's got that one nailed.
the thing is- my kids are gorgeous. neither of their parents are especially stunning, but the combo of euro-mutt and pueblo native...well, wow. it's distracting sometimes. like in that moment, when he looks up at me through his bronze curls and slanting crooked eyes with a playful glint jumping out at me like a star winking. i just swoon a little. and maybe if i could have frozen the clock right then i would have thought about all the rules i will never tell him about because i trust his heart is golden enough to know right from wrong and how to hear its whispers even as mouths shout their truths in his tender ears no matter if he 4 or 14 or 44.
i might have thought all of that and more but he didn't skip a beat before he hollered-"hell yes!" enthusiastically, "get me a banana!"
and i did.
today we saw a movie. in the middle of the afternoon. it was an awful movie- another million dollar mess of a good book, but the flying baboons were terrifying. something the 10 year old remarked about several times over dinner.
the thing i like about the preschool is the same thing that i dislike about most schooling settings: the rules. as a montessori preschool there are very specific routines in place. consistent expectations. this now, that later. repeat.
it both lures me in and horrifies me. it speaks to the part of me that wants to always have the scissors tucked into the sewing basket for speedy retrieval and disgusts the whimsy gal who is too distracted by the sound of migrating geese outside to take the extra ten steps back to the bathroom to put the nail clippers away.
as a mom, i have never mastered the art of routine. honestly, i don't completely believe that "children crave routine" either. i think adults crave obedient children and routine is the quickest way to train a child. or a baboon, especially if you want them to do something completely unnatural like fly or go to sleep alone in a dark bedroom.
so, i'm conflicted often. i do enjoy watching my son sit down and do his "coffee work" with precision and pride. the way he rolls the place mat up so tightly, like it's a tortilla to be dipped in salsa, makes me smile. his tiny fingers on a tiny dropper as he polishes a wooden dolphin sculpture with a q-tip and cotton ball- its melts me.
at the same time, i am equally thrilled when he attempts to put his slippers in his cubby by flipping them off of his foot toward the ceiling- rather than picking them up, stacking them together like a sandwich and gently placing them above his name. i am thrilled because this small deviation thrills him. i know i should be alarmed that he likes to deviate, but i am not in the least.
i suppose i see it as being himself. liking himself. putting his own thoughts and whims on a slightly higher shelf than what others expect of him. and i want him to continue to be that independent and assured. i want him to hold onto a spark of individuality midst the herd. if following the rules leads to being normal- veer from that path, son.
just this morning, as we dashed out the house, he saw me eating a banana and was inspired. he attempted to pull one from the bunch, but as you know, that's tricky.
"hey mom, get me a banana!" he called in a sing-song voice of mock authority. typically, i would have just handed one over or maybe said back "Git your own banana, monkey boy!" in some kind of East coast slang if the mood struck. but because he is in school and we are "working on asking" i prompted him, "are you asking me to help you get a banana?"
he looks at me with this "i know what you are doing" look. he's got that one nailed.
the thing is- my kids are gorgeous. neither of their parents are especially stunning, but the combo of euro-mutt and pueblo native...well, wow. it's distracting sometimes. like in that moment, when he looks up at me through his bronze curls and slanting crooked eyes with a playful glint jumping out at me like a star winking. i just swoon a little. and maybe if i could have frozen the clock right then i would have thought about all the rules i will never tell him about because i trust his heart is golden enough to know right from wrong and how to hear its whispers even as mouths shout their truths in his tender ears no matter if he 4 or 14 or 44.
i might have thought all of that and more but he didn't skip a beat before he hollered-"hell yes!" enthusiastically, "get me a banana!"
and i did.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
deep down
i boarded the train at 9:38 am on thursday and it sped south toward olympia with the same straight-forward determination i felt. it was something along the lines of "get me the hell out of here." perhaps not the warm and sappy thoughts a mother "should" have about leaving her family for three nights away, but then in many ways i don't feel like most mothers.
if there was a twinge of my heart aching it was hard to hear over the sizzling of my nerves after two weeks on my own with the boys while my husband and boss were away- leaving me to find places and people for my sons to be with while i worked for a depressing wage. so while i do love my family and i do love my job...i loved leaving them too.
during the train ride i smirked at the overheard conversations of men drinking bloody marys, introducing themselves as "mobile entertainment technicians" which makes being a carnie sound like it requires a degree and lamenting about the loss of the sonics to another city- and the sad reality that even if the sonics did come back they would never be loved again. it wasn't particularly interesting conversation under normal circumstances but it was entirely different than the usual and so it was interesting to the point that i began recording their sentences in my journal to savor for later.
the purpose of my trip was to get away and the means to this end was a 5Rhythms workshop at Waves Studio- a place I had spent many hours blissed-out, battling myself, building friendships that counter the closest of family ties. blood is thicker than water, but shared sweat rivals blood bonds most definitely.
i danced Thursday and Friday evenings at the studio, each night for two hours and had breakfast plans for saturday morning- and here's where the tale really begins. over eggs and tortillas i learn that a friend of a friend- sitting to my right- has a deck of tarot cards in his pocket. i watch as two others pull one card as a sort of guide or symbol of that moment, their day. the deck is beautiful with muted warm earth toned illustrations that have a vague feeling of munche or toulouse. i watch each person before me draw queens, the later one a perfectly symmetrical drawing of one woman with one cup, beautiful and regal.
this reminds me of the last time i drew a card in olympia, about four years prior when i was pregnant with Small Son. i sat on the living floor of marie's and "asked" the deck about my unborn child. specifically i wanted to know what gender my baby was. the first card i pulled a knight with a long sword. i slapped it down and pushed it aside. i tried again. another sword. and again. more swords. i then flipped through the deck to ensure there were some feminine images, and yes of course there were- but none had touched my fingers. all i had drawn were true to him- my second son.
so when i decided to pull a card on saturday morning i was confident the deck would show me what i needed to see. i pulled out a card and gazed at it. my first thought was "she looks like me!" and then i laughed to see how completely wobbly the card was. the image was of a woman with a light pink derby on with wavy blond hair and uneven eyes. it seemed that she was looking straight on with her right eye while her left looked far off to her side. in front of her was a thin infinity sign with a red pentacle in the center of each loop- at first glance it looked like she was roping them up in a rodeo. the blue sky was above her and around her was water.
i described what i saw to my new friend- a fiery man with small round spectacles that intensified his eyes even more so than his observant nature. he listened carefully and then pointed out that she was indeed surrounded by water and that perhaps she was in a boat. he mentioned, almost casually the need for balance, although his warm eyes looked at me meaningfully like a teacher willing a student to "get it."
balance. ah yes. what i seek, what i miss, what i need. in all aspects of my life i often feel out-of-balance. too much this, not enough that. within my own self, in my relationship, as a mother, as a human it feels that i often am struggling to redistribute tasks, thoughts, needs to be more balanced. coming to the dance was an attempt to right myself a bit- to figure out how to balance a job, homeschooling kids, working on my marriage, having a garden, serving on a board, and the keeping the house from falling into complete ruin, laundry pile first.
coming to the dance is always about this.
so dance i did. i danced furiously, curiously, drastically, bombastically. i danced through so many flavors of joy and fear, celebration and indignation, opening and closing....and then right back to fear. the deepest, darkest fear my body has ever held. the fear i think i have "gotten over" only to have her slide up beside me and unsettle me all over because this fear isn't based on a shadow, but a truth i have felt in my exploding lungs and hurting heart- even though i cannot recall the details with my mind, these other organs scream protest, they scream witness.
the story goes that when i was a child- about 2 or 3- i fell into a swimming pool and sank. my brother, who is 4 years older than me, was my witness. he told me once, casually over dinner in vancouver, that when they pulled me up i was blue.
now, i could have dismissed this as a mis-memory on my brother's part- except that my body jolted with a clear recognition that was impossible to deny. years of swimming lessons all undone by the slightly splash of water on my face, the way my heart races if my feet do not touch bottom, the many hours it took to simple trust water enough to float in a pool four feet deep. the "click" of understanding a bit more about myself must have been audible that night.
but i had felt i had dealt with that old fear- until suddenly, while dancing- i was there again. alone, terrified, drowning in tepid water, frantic for someone to come and help me. which, of course, happened. someone did come and help me. i am here now. except for that small bit of me that is stuck somewhere in my past, trying to catch up with me, sending me messages like greeting cards across breakfast tables.
hours after my break down on the dance floor - oh yes, full on tantrum - i remembered the tarot card and reviewed the sketch i had done of her/me. then i noticed a few more things. i was in a boat. i was safely, securely in a boat. and i was not alone in the boat- someone was looking me in the eye and telling me that even if i lost balance and capsized, even if i sank like a chunk of granite, even if i grew terrified and forgot how to float and how to breath, that no matter what- i would not drown.
if there was a twinge of my heart aching it was hard to hear over the sizzling of my nerves after two weeks on my own with the boys while my husband and boss were away- leaving me to find places and people for my sons to be with while i worked for a depressing wage. so while i do love my family and i do love my job...i loved leaving them too.
during the train ride i smirked at the overheard conversations of men drinking bloody marys, introducing themselves as "mobile entertainment technicians" which makes being a carnie sound like it requires a degree and lamenting about the loss of the sonics to another city- and the sad reality that even if the sonics did come back they would never be loved again. it wasn't particularly interesting conversation under normal circumstances but it was entirely different than the usual and so it was interesting to the point that i began recording their sentences in my journal to savor for later.
the purpose of my trip was to get away and the means to this end was a 5Rhythms workshop at Waves Studio- a place I had spent many hours blissed-out, battling myself, building friendships that counter the closest of family ties. blood is thicker than water, but shared sweat rivals blood bonds most definitely.
i danced Thursday and Friday evenings at the studio, each night for two hours and had breakfast plans for saturday morning- and here's where the tale really begins. over eggs and tortillas i learn that a friend of a friend- sitting to my right- has a deck of tarot cards in his pocket. i watch as two others pull one card as a sort of guide or symbol of that moment, their day. the deck is beautiful with muted warm earth toned illustrations that have a vague feeling of munche or toulouse. i watch each person before me draw queens, the later one a perfectly symmetrical drawing of one woman with one cup, beautiful and regal.
this reminds me of the last time i drew a card in olympia, about four years prior when i was pregnant with Small Son. i sat on the living floor of marie's and "asked" the deck about my unborn child. specifically i wanted to know what gender my baby was. the first card i pulled a knight with a long sword. i slapped it down and pushed it aside. i tried again. another sword. and again. more swords. i then flipped through the deck to ensure there were some feminine images, and yes of course there were- but none had touched my fingers. all i had drawn were true to him- my second son.
so when i decided to pull a card on saturday morning i was confident the deck would show me what i needed to see. i pulled out a card and gazed at it. my first thought was "she looks like me!" and then i laughed to see how completely wobbly the card was. the image was of a woman with a light pink derby on with wavy blond hair and uneven eyes. it seemed that she was looking straight on with her right eye while her left looked far off to her side. in front of her was a thin infinity sign with a red pentacle in the center of each loop- at first glance it looked like she was roping them up in a rodeo. the blue sky was above her and around her was water.
i described what i saw to my new friend- a fiery man with small round spectacles that intensified his eyes even more so than his observant nature. he listened carefully and then pointed out that she was indeed surrounded by water and that perhaps she was in a boat. he mentioned, almost casually the need for balance, although his warm eyes looked at me meaningfully like a teacher willing a student to "get it."
balance. ah yes. what i seek, what i miss, what i need. in all aspects of my life i often feel out-of-balance. too much this, not enough that. within my own self, in my relationship, as a mother, as a human it feels that i often am struggling to redistribute tasks, thoughts, needs to be more balanced. coming to the dance was an attempt to right myself a bit- to figure out how to balance a job, homeschooling kids, working on my marriage, having a garden, serving on a board, and the keeping the house from falling into complete ruin, laundry pile first.
coming to the dance is always about this.
so dance i did. i danced furiously, curiously, drastically, bombastically. i danced through so many flavors of joy and fear, celebration and indignation, opening and closing....and then right back to fear. the deepest, darkest fear my body has ever held. the fear i think i have "gotten over" only to have her slide up beside me and unsettle me all over because this fear isn't based on a shadow, but a truth i have felt in my exploding lungs and hurting heart- even though i cannot recall the details with my mind, these other organs scream protest, they scream witness.
the story goes that when i was a child- about 2 or 3- i fell into a swimming pool and sank. my brother, who is 4 years older than me, was my witness. he told me once, casually over dinner in vancouver, that when they pulled me up i was blue.
now, i could have dismissed this as a mis-memory on my brother's part- except that my body jolted with a clear recognition that was impossible to deny. years of swimming lessons all undone by the slightly splash of water on my face, the way my heart races if my feet do not touch bottom, the many hours it took to simple trust water enough to float in a pool four feet deep. the "click" of understanding a bit more about myself must have been audible that night.
but i had felt i had dealt with that old fear- until suddenly, while dancing- i was there again. alone, terrified, drowning in tepid water, frantic for someone to come and help me. which, of course, happened. someone did come and help me. i am here now. except for that small bit of me that is stuck somewhere in my past, trying to catch up with me, sending me messages like greeting cards across breakfast tables.
hours after my break down on the dance floor - oh yes, full on tantrum - i remembered the tarot card and reviewed the sketch i had done of her/me. then i noticed a few more things. i was in a boat. i was safely, securely in a boat. and i was not alone in the boat- someone was looking me in the eye and telling me that even if i lost balance and capsized, even if i sank like a chunk of granite, even if i grew terrified and forgot how to float and how to breath, that no matter what- i would not drown.
Friday, November 2, 2012
My Hero
Everyone wants to be a hero, champion, a badass. Few things compare with that feeling of knowing you were there, just at the right moment, and completely changed the outcome of a situation doomed for darkness. I could argue that maybe it's this need that fuels motherhood, because being a mama requires being a badass many times a day.
Or attempting to be a badass and failing at it, locking yourself into the bathroom and taking a bath at 3:30 in the afternoon because you figure you are least likely to do permanent damage this way while you mourn the fantasy of being the badass you used to once be.
I realized into my seventh year of parenting my Big Son that this desire, to be the unexpected solution to a problem, was HUGE. It fueled his play, picked his toys, and provided a significant motivation when it came to chores. While asking "can you help unload the dish washer?" was met with lackluster interest, rephrasing the question into something more of a plea for help, the clean dishes being menacing and overwhelming (which they often are, damn plates) resulting in an enthusiastic rescue.
I'm not above playing the stereotypical helpless maiden bound by circumstances outside of my control (sock sorting, for example) when it comes getting help with the housework. Don't tell Ani, but sometimes being the kitten in the tree has perks.
There have been real life situation when I did need a hero. A Hero, even (and I include in this the female form of the word Heroine...but not the liquid suicide you inject into your veins. That has no place here.) Times when one showed up, times when one didn't, times when I just got tired of waiting and decided to be my own. Or times when all three happen at once.
For example...
Sometimes my brain clicks on, loudly and fierce like a downhill train without brakes, at the wee hours of the morn. I lay in the dark, resentful of nearby snoring, and review all the ways I have fucked up. Or worry about the way I am going to fuck up. Sure, there is a undercurrent of self-love and grandmotherly charm somewhere in my head too, but it's mostly drowned out by the screeching. After ninety minutes of this, it feels like a good time to do laundry.
On this particular October morn, I found my flip-flops in the dark and wandered toward the laundry room. Ok, that noun "room" implies that it is more than a hall- which is what it really is - the laundry hall/pantry. A very tight hall packed full of glass jars I can't seem to use, recycle or surrender pushed into the crevices of boxes, packages and cans of food that I often forget to use. It's not a particularly welcoming area of the house, it's supposed to be about function - but does not have much form. True, I often get a little skittish because you have to walk through the dark hall, three steps, to reach the light switch and then you stand facing the window on the back door and more than once I have scared the shit out of myself by seeing my reflection staring back at me (really, a child should never watch those Halloween movies). Oh, and there was the time I switched on the light and found a country mouse (also known as a rat) clinging to the wall, staring at me with big, wet, black eyes.
This morning I was too sleepy to remember to be scared though, and as it would happen, as soon as I switched on the light there was a thudding sound of something hitting a wall and the squawks of startled chickens. At 4 in the morning, before the slow glow of dawn has begun to tickle sounds out of the world, these are really loud and terrifying sounds and instantly cleared the whiny bitch noise in my head. If I had only heard the thudding sound I would not have grabbed the closest "weapon," the broom, and ran out into the dark night. I would have gone and woke up the slumbering big man of a bear in the bedroom. It was the squawk. A squawk of equal parts terrors and indignation...a call to arms. Broom in hand, I went forth.
As I ran out of the door and down the slippery wooden steps, I hollered over my shoulder to the sleeping house "SOMETHING'SINTHEHENHOUSE!" and ran, full tilt to meet the tormentors.
And then I stopped. As I cleared the corner of the house, darkness cut a sharp angle and only shadows of the hen house greeted me. I was taken over with the realization that my sleepy attire of yoga pants and flip-flops was sooo not the rodent-fighting armor I was wishing for. I have a vivid imagination, and in that nano-second of seeing the hen house and knowing I was going to get closer to it, I clearly lived the horror of having my toes mauled by a fierce furry thing. Something with a looong and pointy tail. My toes were cold and worried. They were wondering if maybe they were higher up on the priority list then the chickens, because yes- the eggs are good but walking is really good.
Their complaints were hardly acknowledged before another loud round of thumping and squawking erupting from the wooden coop, which caused me to scream and randomly bang the outside of the coop. At the time, I had a vague notion that this was going to scare the critter out of the coop. Now I realize it was just reinforcing the perception my neighbors have of me that I am crazy. In fact, I was just practicing my broom swing...cuz I was fixin' to do some mean sweeping on those darn varmints. "Sweep 'em clear to Sunday," is the term I would later coin to explain my weapon of choice.
I could see ruffled feathered hens darting in the bottom run of the chicken coop so I ventured round to open the run- squishing into wet grass - toes loudly protesting as I neared the door. Two chickens ran swiftly into the safety of the dark and then ran back out of the dark because the dark doesn't really feel that safe most of the time.
Now the chicken coop was put together from various found wood, which we hoard, and isn't really the most clever in the design area. It is on wheels and it sits parallel the elevated back deck. There is the bottom run, which has a ramp leading up through a hatch- which had been left open the night before - and into the roosting area and nesting box. The nesting box has a lid that opens and the roosting area has a large door that you can swing open and latch. If you get really close and put down your broom. That's what I did to find sleeping birds and lots of menacing blackness.
The perfect moment for a hero to arrive.
The outside light sprang on with a fierceness and the sliding glass down rolled open with a velocity that caused it to bounce back a tad, and out stepped my Big Son, his long brown hair wild and full, clad only in his plaid boxer shorts, holding in his two hands his pellet rifle, cocked and loaded. And as he stepped into the light he yelled out in a high voice imitating a low voice, "WHO IS MESSING WITH MY GIRLS?!"
I'm writing to Websters and telling them to update their entry for "badass."
And for "hero" too.
Or attempting to be a badass and failing at it, locking yourself into the bathroom and taking a bath at 3:30 in the afternoon because you figure you are least likely to do permanent damage this way while you mourn the fantasy of being the badass you used to once be.
I realized into my seventh year of parenting my Big Son that this desire, to be the unexpected solution to a problem, was HUGE. It fueled his play, picked his toys, and provided a significant motivation when it came to chores. While asking "can you help unload the dish washer?" was met with lackluster interest, rephrasing the question into something more of a plea for help, the clean dishes being menacing and overwhelming (which they often are, damn plates) resulting in an enthusiastic rescue.
I'm not above playing the stereotypical helpless maiden bound by circumstances outside of my control (sock sorting, for example) when it comes getting help with the housework. Don't tell Ani, but sometimes being the kitten in the tree has perks.
There have been real life situation when I did need a hero. A Hero, even (and I include in this the female form of the word Heroine...but not the liquid suicide you inject into your veins. That has no place here.) Times when one showed up, times when one didn't, times when I just got tired of waiting and decided to be my own. Or times when all three happen at once.
For example...
Sometimes my brain clicks on, loudly and fierce like a downhill train without brakes, at the wee hours of the morn. I lay in the dark, resentful of nearby snoring, and review all the ways I have fucked up. Or worry about the way I am going to fuck up. Sure, there is a undercurrent of self-love and grandmotherly charm somewhere in my head too, but it's mostly drowned out by the screeching. After ninety minutes of this, it feels like a good time to do laundry.
On this particular October morn, I found my flip-flops in the dark and wandered toward the laundry room. Ok, that noun "room" implies that it is more than a hall- which is what it really is - the laundry hall/pantry. A very tight hall packed full of glass jars I can't seem to use, recycle or surrender pushed into the crevices of boxes, packages and cans of food that I often forget to use. It's not a particularly welcoming area of the house, it's supposed to be about function - but does not have much form. True, I often get a little skittish because you have to walk through the dark hall, three steps, to reach the light switch and then you stand facing the window on the back door and more than once I have scared the shit out of myself by seeing my reflection staring back at me (really, a child should never watch those Halloween movies). Oh, and there was the time I switched on the light and found a country mouse (also known as a rat) clinging to the wall, staring at me with big, wet, black eyes.
This morning I was too sleepy to remember to be scared though, and as it would happen, as soon as I switched on the light there was a thudding sound of something hitting a wall and the squawks of startled chickens. At 4 in the morning, before the slow glow of dawn has begun to tickle sounds out of the world, these are really loud and terrifying sounds and instantly cleared the whiny bitch noise in my head. If I had only heard the thudding sound I would not have grabbed the closest "weapon," the broom, and ran out into the dark night. I would have gone and woke up the slumbering big man of a bear in the bedroom. It was the squawk. A squawk of equal parts terrors and indignation...a call to arms. Broom in hand, I went forth.
As I ran out of the door and down the slippery wooden steps, I hollered over my shoulder to the sleeping house "SOMETHING'SINTHEHENHOUSE!" and ran, full tilt to meet the tormentors.
And then I stopped. As I cleared the corner of the house, darkness cut a sharp angle and only shadows of the hen house greeted me. I was taken over with the realization that my sleepy attire of yoga pants and flip-flops was sooo not the rodent-fighting armor I was wishing for. I have a vivid imagination, and in that nano-second of seeing the hen house and knowing I was going to get closer to it, I clearly lived the horror of having my toes mauled by a fierce furry thing. Something with a looong and pointy tail. My toes were cold and worried. They were wondering if maybe they were higher up on the priority list then the chickens, because yes- the eggs are good but walking is really good.
Their complaints were hardly acknowledged before another loud round of thumping and squawking erupting from the wooden coop, which caused me to scream and randomly bang the outside of the coop. At the time, I had a vague notion that this was going to scare the critter out of the coop. Now I realize it was just reinforcing the perception my neighbors have of me that I am crazy. In fact, I was just practicing my broom swing...cuz I was fixin' to do some mean sweeping on those darn varmints. "Sweep 'em clear to Sunday," is the term I would later coin to explain my weapon of choice.
I could see ruffled feathered hens darting in the bottom run of the chicken coop so I ventured round to open the run- squishing into wet grass - toes loudly protesting as I neared the door. Two chickens ran swiftly into the safety of the dark and then ran back out of the dark because the dark doesn't really feel that safe most of the time.
Now the chicken coop was put together from various found wood, which we hoard, and isn't really the most clever in the design area. It is on wheels and it sits parallel the elevated back deck. There is the bottom run, which has a ramp leading up through a hatch- which had been left open the night before - and into the roosting area and nesting box. The nesting box has a lid that opens and the roosting area has a large door that you can swing open and latch. If you get really close and put down your broom. That's what I did to find sleeping birds and lots of menacing blackness.
The perfect moment for a hero to arrive.
The outside light sprang on with a fierceness and the sliding glass down rolled open with a velocity that caused it to bounce back a tad, and out stepped my Big Son, his long brown hair wild and full, clad only in his plaid boxer shorts, holding in his two hands his pellet rifle, cocked and loaded. And as he stepped into the light he yelled out in a high voice imitating a low voice, "WHO IS MESSING WITH MY GIRLS?!"
I'm writing to Websters and telling them to update their entry for "badass."
And for "hero" too.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
small spots
as i walked down the houseware aisle toward the cat food, i spied a nymph-of-a-cashier carefully turning the cans of cat food into columns of symmetry. this meditative practice is often referred to as "facing" in the retail world. i spent a good lot of my time at work doing this to antioxidants, omegas, and the like. this cashier however, had a pensive countenance and her movements were slow and measured. this is not the usual approach to facing a store. it is often a much more harried task, so i felt compelled to inquire.
now this cashier is especially faerie-like. she may be the quintessential cashier for a health food cooperative store. her hair is wispy, light and often has fragrant flower blossoms or found feathers laying in it's haphazard curls. her eyes are a piercing blue but her lids are heavy. she is slight in build and has freckles on her nose. her name is not common. she isn't named after a plant or a state of being - as the stereotype might suggest - but you probably wouldn't be entirely sure how to pronounce her name if you saw it on her name tag. she is kind and genuine. i'm pretty sure when she sleeps butterflies make moss beds on her pillow to slumber near her.
i wasn't completely surprised when she told me that at that moment she was thinking that "it" was all about balance. "it" being life, not facing - although if you have ever dared to enter the tetris-like task of facing the tea-box-wall then you know that facing is also all about balance. she continued to talk a bit about balance - the need to not swing to far to one side or the other.
in my own balancing act i have found that when i make a sudden move, there will be an equally forceful movement in an opposing way. while if i made smaller nudges then the pendulum doesn't hit me in the ass on the way back to me.
i immediately thought of the yin-yang symbol when the faerie-of-cashierland said "balance" because this symbol is often used in my parenting conversations, more so perhaps than most, because i have a very emotional child who can go to extremes in his reactions - clearly a genetic lark.
the way the swirls suggest motion and a cycle. the spot of light within the dark and vice versa. the small points when light turns to dark and then dark back to light.
constant circular movement creates balance.
and i fight like hell against this most of the time. when things are good, i want to stop the clock and just keep it good. for. ev. er. i want laundry to stay clean. i want money to stay in the bank. i don't want to have to buy more cat food a month from now. and i certainly do not want to talk about something that has already been talked about before. yes, ironically i want exactly what i fear the most: stagnation.
but, as the cashier-faerie demonstrated with her towers of cat vittles and her twinkling eyes - it is all about balance. even when things comes crashing down and land on your exposed toes, it is still about balance.
even when your checkbook is not balanced and your bounce several checks to the place you work - it is still about balance.
even when you try to bring in your purse, the library books, and the rotten food at the same time and fail at this attempt. yup, balance. again, when i say "you" what i mean is "me."
riding a bike. taking a shower. comforting a child. making a meal. asking for help. going to sleep. sun down. sun up.
over and over.
thankfully.
now this cashier is especially faerie-like. she may be the quintessential cashier for a health food cooperative store. her hair is wispy, light and often has fragrant flower blossoms or found feathers laying in it's haphazard curls. her eyes are a piercing blue but her lids are heavy. she is slight in build and has freckles on her nose. her name is not common. she isn't named after a plant or a state of being - as the stereotype might suggest - but you probably wouldn't be entirely sure how to pronounce her name if you saw it on her name tag. she is kind and genuine. i'm pretty sure when she sleeps butterflies make moss beds on her pillow to slumber near her.
i wasn't completely surprised when she told me that at that moment she was thinking that "it" was all about balance. "it" being life, not facing - although if you have ever dared to enter the tetris-like task of facing the tea-box-wall then you know that facing is also all about balance. she continued to talk a bit about balance - the need to not swing to far to one side or the other.
in my own balancing act i have found that when i make a sudden move, there will be an equally forceful movement in an opposing way. while if i made smaller nudges then the pendulum doesn't hit me in the ass on the way back to me.
i immediately thought of the yin-yang symbol when the faerie-of-cashierland said "balance" because this symbol is often used in my parenting conversations, more so perhaps than most, because i have a very emotional child who can go to extremes in his reactions - clearly a genetic lark.
the way the swirls suggest motion and a cycle. the spot of light within the dark and vice versa. the small points when light turns to dark and then dark back to light.
constant circular movement creates balance.
and i fight like hell against this most of the time. when things are good, i want to stop the clock and just keep it good. for. ev. er. i want laundry to stay clean. i want money to stay in the bank. i don't want to have to buy more cat food a month from now. and i certainly do not want to talk about something that has already been talked about before. yes, ironically i want exactly what i fear the most: stagnation.
but, as the cashier-faerie demonstrated with her towers of cat vittles and her twinkling eyes - it is all about balance. even when things comes crashing down and land on your exposed toes, it is still about balance.
even when your checkbook is not balanced and your bounce several checks to the place you work - it is still about balance.
even when you try to bring in your purse, the library books, and the rotten food at the same time and fail at this attempt. yup, balance. again, when i say "you" what i mean is "me."
riding a bike. taking a shower. comforting a child. making a meal. asking for help. going to sleep. sun down. sun up.
over and over.
thankfully.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
let it shine
the divine mostly whispers. small and soft voice in my mind- suggesting solutions, offering detour directions, calming me when i scrap my knee past the age when my mama's lap fits. it is the crux of life that whispering can be easy to ignore.
often it is about ten seconds too late that i recognize the whispering. the moment after i turn down a street and see the sea of brake lights, when the sound of my son's siren screech out of his square mouth lands in my ears from a trip i didn't catch - resulting in blood and scab, the look of hurt as my impulsive words land on the heart of someone in an ugly splat of black tar. then i think, didn't i hear that whispering that said to turn right, to hold my son's hand, to keep my mouth shut?
truth is i do hear it.
truth is i sometimes don't recognize it as my whispering divinity. sometimes she can sound a little bit like a nagging fish wench or a whiny child or a grumpy-ass old man who doesn't brush his teeth often. or maybe it's that it is hard to hear because all of these voices/thoughts are swirling around in my head in an overcooked soup, where carrots and potatoes taste the same.
truth is, sometimes i hear it, i recognize it and i ignore it. i think "yeah, right i don't need to get gas now." the stubborn part of me that simply doesn't want to be told what to do - even told what to do by my best-self, my guardian angel, my muse, my floating buddha of hope. the rebel without a reason, i just disregard all sorts of good counsel and go straight toward obstacles as fat and crusty as brick walls.
basically, this is why i got my nose pierced. not because i was rebelling, but because i wanted a reminder that i do have this little light that shines and if i let it shine, as the song goes, i can follow it to where i need to be.
i discovered this one late night when i sat up and preached a sermon to myself on the couch as i folded laundry. i started off by singing songs and then i started chatting about the song - why it has lasted so long, why so many voices and hearts had found comfort in them. i kept coming back to "this little light of mine, i'm gonna let it shine." and i'd talk to myself, out loud, about what that meant to me in this life.
i figured the whispering and the light are one-and-the-same. i also figured that i needed a reminder about this, something a little big bigger/louder than the whispering. something purdy and glittery and magically delicious.
these were the thoughts i had when teri stuck a hollow needle through my right nostril - i was singing this song in my head and imagining the tiny hole was like a star in the night sky. a jewel in a vast dark landscape. a disney tune might have slipped in there too.
a year later my nose-piercing seemed to be working. except when it didn't. like one morning as i washed my face in the shower, i heard the whisper say "you should be careful washing your face with this nose piercing." and so i didn't. i thought "nah, it's been fine all this time."
until 5 minutes later when i noticed the moonstone stud wasn't firmly in my flesh, but on the brink of the shower drain. and it wouldn't go back through my nose. i could get it all the way through the layers of my outer dermis, the cartilage but not the inner mostly muscusy layer of my nose. i could feel the tip of the metal but it would not pierce through.
i'm as vain as the next person, i admit. but it was something more than vanity that caused me a slight flutter of panic to land in my belly at the thought of my nose piercing refusing to be replanted in my nostril. it was like a sign, like my light was being denied. like the whispering had gone away - the tiny stud being it's speaker in my face and i couldn't get the freakin' wires to connect.
throughout the day, i kept trying to get the stud back in my nose. my nose responded by swelling up and making it even more difficult. i straightening an L shaped piercing to double the length, but still couldn't quite get it through. i stalked pierced folks at stores and later at a party for advice.
the consensus: i had to push it through or it would only close up more.
the advice: do it now. make noise when it hurt. use a frozen carrot.
well, there were no frozen carrots to be found in the farmhouse freezer because really, frozen carrots are never as good as fresh carrots. however we did manage to find a bag of edamame pods in the chest freezer. i've also appreciated edamame pods, especially because of those soft hairs on them. they remind me of $85 tabs for sushi, seaweed salad and sake when it was feasible to spend that much money on 45 minutes of food. it's been awhile.
while the party continued behind the barn, the jugglers on the stage of the flat-bed truck and the cherries pits being sucked clean and then spit into the bushes, i went inside to the bathroom with my Small Son in tow and a midwife for the pain. sitting on the counter, i shoved a cube of ice up my nose to numb it. Small Son found this hilarious. then in with the fuzzy green pod. the bulbous curve of the bean fit snugly into my nostril. i pushed the piercing through and felt it hindered by my thinnest skin.
this is where the noise-making helps. because it is really challenging to cause ourselves pain and hold in noise at the same time. it also helps to have someone else, midwife, make loud groaning noises with you from the doorway of the bathroom as your kid plays with the wooden teapot on the waldorf kitchen set up. it is easier to groan into a groan rather than into silence.
as i pulled the pod out of my noise i saw small spots of blood on the green skin. i felt the silver poking my septum as i wrinkled my swollen nose. i turned my head this way and that to view the little light that had been gone for the past ten or so hours.
and i thought
next time, i'm going to listen to that whisper
because,
damn, that hurt.
often it is about ten seconds too late that i recognize the whispering. the moment after i turn down a street and see the sea of brake lights, when the sound of my son's siren screech out of his square mouth lands in my ears from a trip i didn't catch - resulting in blood and scab, the look of hurt as my impulsive words land on the heart of someone in an ugly splat of black tar. then i think, didn't i hear that whispering that said to turn right, to hold my son's hand, to keep my mouth shut?
truth is i do hear it.
truth is i sometimes don't recognize it as my whispering divinity. sometimes she can sound a little bit like a nagging fish wench or a whiny child or a grumpy-ass old man who doesn't brush his teeth often. or maybe it's that it is hard to hear because all of these voices/thoughts are swirling around in my head in an overcooked soup, where carrots and potatoes taste the same.
truth is, sometimes i hear it, i recognize it and i ignore it. i think "yeah, right i don't need to get gas now." the stubborn part of me that simply doesn't want to be told what to do - even told what to do by my best-self, my guardian angel, my muse, my floating buddha of hope. the rebel without a reason, i just disregard all sorts of good counsel and go straight toward obstacles as fat and crusty as brick walls.
basically, this is why i got my nose pierced. not because i was rebelling, but because i wanted a reminder that i do have this little light that shines and if i let it shine, as the song goes, i can follow it to where i need to be.
i discovered this one late night when i sat up and preached a sermon to myself on the couch as i folded laundry. i started off by singing songs and then i started chatting about the song - why it has lasted so long, why so many voices and hearts had found comfort in them. i kept coming back to "this little light of mine, i'm gonna let it shine." and i'd talk to myself, out loud, about what that meant to me in this life.
i figured the whispering and the light are one-and-the-same. i also figured that i needed a reminder about this, something a little big bigger/louder than the whispering. something purdy and glittery and magically delicious.
these were the thoughts i had when teri stuck a hollow needle through my right nostril - i was singing this song in my head and imagining the tiny hole was like a star in the night sky. a jewel in a vast dark landscape. a disney tune might have slipped in there too.
a year later my nose-piercing seemed to be working. except when it didn't. like one morning as i washed my face in the shower, i heard the whisper say "you should be careful washing your face with this nose piercing." and so i didn't. i thought "nah, it's been fine all this time."
until 5 minutes later when i noticed the moonstone stud wasn't firmly in my flesh, but on the brink of the shower drain. and it wouldn't go back through my nose. i could get it all the way through the layers of my outer dermis, the cartilage but not the inner mostly muscusy layer of my nose. i could feel the tip of the metal but it would not pierce through.
i'm as vain as the next person, i admit. but it was something more than vanity that caused me a slight flutter of panic to land in my belly at the thought of my nose piercing refusing to be replanted in my nostril. it was like a sign, like my light was being denied. like the whispering had gone away - the tiny stud being it's speaker in my face and i couldn't get the freakin' wires to connect.
throughout the day, i kept trying to get the stud back in my nose. my nose responded by swelling up and making it even more difficult. i straightening an L shaped piercing to double the length, but still couldn't quite get it through. i stalked pierced folks at stores and later at a party for advice.
the consensus: i had to push it through or it would only close up more.
the advice: do it now. make noise when it hurt. use a frozen carrot.
well, there were no frozen carrots to be found in the farmhouse freezer because really, frozen carrots are never as good as fresh carrots. however we did manage to find a bag of edamame pods in the chest freezer. i've also appreciated edamame pods, especially because of those soft hairs on them. they remind me of $85 tabs for sushi, seaweed salad and sake when it was feasible to spend that much money on 45 minutes of food. it's been awhile.
while the party continued behind the barn, the jugglers on the stage of the flat-bed truck and the cherries pits being sucked clean and then spit into the bushes, i went inside to the bathroom with my Small Son in tow and a midwife for the pain. sitting on the counter, i shoved a cube of ice up my nose to numb it. Small Son found this hilarious. then in with the fuzzy green pod. the bulbous curve of the bean fit snugly into my nostril. i pushed the piercing through and felt it hindered by my thinnest skin.
this is where the noise-making helps. because it is really challenging to cause ourselves pain and hold in noise at the same time. it also helps to have someone else, midwife, make loud groaning noises with you from the doorway of the bathroom as your kid plays with the wooden teapot on the waldorf kitchen set up. it is easier to groan into a groan rather than into silence.
as i pulled the pod out of my noise i saw small spots of blood on the green skin. i felt the silver poking my septum as i wrinkled my swollen nose. i turned my head this way and that to view the little light that had been gone for the past ten or so hours.
and i thought
next time, i'm going to listen to that whisper
because,
damn, that hurt.
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