this one if for my brother. about my brother. possibly in honor, to honor, my brother.
the brother who is older, bigger, taller, a whole lot more wild than i am. the brother who lived crazy for a long time while i watched, horrified mostly- sometimes amused, and just prayed that he'd live long enough for a child to call him uncle.
the brother who taught me to roller skate on the sidewalk of west one-seventy street, to fight mean and sneaky when you are out-sized (note: he didn't directly teach me this, as he did with roller skating, rather this was a skill i developed to combat his girth and slight tendency to be entertained by annoying me in his bear-like affectionate manner), and who also demonstrated a slew of slightly less useful, more destructive behaviors that i, for the most part, chose to steer clear of as i grew older and was supervised less often.
the brother who tells me stories that pop back up in my mind just as i need them. like this one.
on a recent morning, after not getting enough sleep, i walked into the backyard to release the chickens. despite their charm- i was not moved from my place of grump. i topped the porch stairs and took a moment to smell morning and take stock. i had no real reason to be in a sour mood. no doctor diagnosis, no pending repossession, no phone calls i was avoiding. the small bits of irritation that chaffed under my skin were just that small- and yet- lack of sleep makes my skin thin and sensitive to unwashed dishes and cats that want to sleep on my head.
the view from the back porch is peaceful. the neighbors old fence dips down gradually with lush land and in that green shallow a few horses often graze. the sun sparks up the sky, the wind blows clouds ever northward and the small mountains hug the horizon with their solid arms of rock, trees, deep roots.
here i stand- talking myself down, or up, and just waiting for grace. i do this often. i get to this place in my mind- always in my mind- where i simply realize that i need some grace, a blessing, a sign, a anchor, a kite string, a token, an open door that leads me back to where i really am- which is not in my mind. slowly the elements worked away on my crust, i could feel the wind blowing a bit deeper through me. a whispering to my soul that i didn't even need to strain to hear.
the chickens began to look charming again.
and then, here comes the squirrel. we used to have several squirrels about us- but since the hazelnut tree was dug up and mulched up, the furry rodents have found other nuts to steal, other car hoods to hide under, other kids to charm. this squirrel was simply passing through, nose to ground she scampered south- no doubt heading to the mecca garden of our neighbors. her black eyes glance up at the assorted hens pecking away at various plants and bugs, and the squirrel pauses.
whenever i see a squirrel i think of my brother. he is nothing like a squirrel in his physical stature. he is all bear. even his mannerism are not squirrelly. my association comes from this dream he had and shared with me.
no, i normally wouldn't share a dream- but this is a good lesson for us all. and my brother is a firm believer in The Teacher.
in the dream, a squirrel was running all of over his body and he couldn't quite catch it, couldn't quite get it off him. on arms, legs, head, torso- seemingly everywhere at once. you've seen squirrels circle around on a tree- their small velcro claws, their twitchy tails- speedy lil bastards. and imagine if one was determined to be on you. not attacking you- just wanted to be on you. no matter where you twisted or how fast you grabbed- and even if you managed to fling it off- there it was right back on your back.
no doubt he didn't sleep well that night- and later mentioned his dream to a co-worker who gave the sage advice: "some believe everything, everyone we dream about is a manifestation of ourselves." this got my brother to thinking about what this spastic little squirrel represented to him. after some thought- he settled on the part of his personality that is very impulsive. the part that sparks him to say mildly offensive comments, drive really fast without the use of a either the right or the left indicator, and jump into various pots of hot water. that part of him that at times really irritated him, the part he wanted to cast off.
now, if it was only the dream this wouldn't necessarily be anything worth remembering. it would just be another strange animal dream, another brief glimpse into the psyche. time to move on, time to watch some tv.
which is what he did later that evening. i can see my brother on his couch- sprawled out, his eyes slightly unfocused, brow a bit heavy from working all day. flipping through channels- rather quickly perhaps- and stopping on the news. local stuff. small pieces of lives snipped down into thirty second segments: storms, reunions, money found, fires raging.
a brief clip of a news report of a fire- a building ablaze. i can imagine him watching this a bit detached until attention was brought to the roof. the place where so many wind up during a fire- trying to escape the heat, the smoke, the flame. yet, once you get there you don't have so many options. the lone inhabitant of the roof was facing that reality. there was a squirrel, trapped on the roof a burning building. if my brother has glanced to his left, he would have seen The Teacher next to him.
my brother sat up at this sight- as if the football was steps away from touchdown in a tied game with seconds left on the clock.
as i remember the telling, the squirrel was frantically searching for escape from it's inferno in the sky- but there was only one solution: jump. maybe he knew he could make it or maybe he thought he wouldn't. maybe the risk was small or great- most likely he didn't calculate it at all. he acted on impulse- or maybe it should be called INpulse as in something in our blood that screams "GO!" when we need it to most. the squirrel ran across the building stretching his body long with each stride, gaining speed and launched himself into the sky like a bullet aimed on the closest target- and landed safely on the roof of the adjoining building.
i can see my brother's eyes go wide with awe and hear him saying "no way!" in astonishment. i can hear the "click" of his dream snapping into place, like the sound of a door clicking shut behind The Teacher leaving, confident that you got it this time. i can see him gaining respect for his own "inner squirrel" and the many, many it has saved his ass through the years. then i hear him laughing- with his eyes all squinting; his chest erupting with bursts of pure joy.
and each time he told that story, to our dad, co-workers, folks at a meeting, i wish i had been there to hear it. to capture that moment when that fortune cookie cliche "everything happens as it should" rings loud and true.
i stood out on my back porch and thought of all of this as i watched my own squirrel. i noticed that a squirrel is like water in that she sees no obstacles, just alters her course. this squirrel, deciding not risk chicken confrontation, left the grass behind and went up the play structure instead. from the cedar beams she jumped onto the red maple branch- and from there to shed roof, fence, and gone from threat of chicken- back to grass, thistle, dandelion jungle.
i recognize this trait in my brother. the things he has accomplished- it's like he sees no obstacles. or rather- he does see them- and manages to find an alternative course. it hasn't always been easy for him, i know. sometimes maybe he even imagined some obstacles or maybe the course he took ended up far more difficult. but the point is, the point was- is that he kept going. he listened to "GO!" and we share some of that dna.
i turned around and walked back into the house of Things-To-Do. in that few minutes of respite the only thing that changed was my perspective- now a bit lighter, a bit more risky, a bit more interested in overcoming the challenge of an obstacle rather than sitting there starting at it and bitching.
a bit more squirrelly all the way around- another lesson from my brother. come to think of it- squirrels and bear do kind of look alike. especially around the ears.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
the plan
i am a planner. well, more of a dreamer. i come up with schemes and plots and adventures continually. most likely this is a survival skill i developed at a young age when i fully realized that most real people in my life were somewhat....inconsistent in their behavior. that's a nice way to say crazy. ok, maybe they aren't crazy. they are probably just as crazy as anyone else- maybe they were even boring- and that's why i started making up stories, plans, escape routes.
in any case, i still do this.
a small gesture- like stirring honey into a cup of tea- blooms into an old woman living her last days in a nursing home, desperate for a cup of tea fixed to her liking, but alas she can no longer talk and no one pays any mind to her grunting until one day a soft-hearted visitors takes notes and....well, it goes on from there. ending with lots of money being given to this kind person.
i like those kind of endings. bright red bows on the conclusion. neat and trim. no messy crap like real life- where nothing ever really ends...until we do. and stories that end with lots of money are fun to imagine sometimes.
because i sometimes like to wonder what it would feel like to just do stuff- like buy 4 tickets to a seattle play, kidnap friends or strangers and go. or to send a thousand bucks to the food bank. or to go to an art festival and actually be able to spend $39 on a pair of earrings made out of acorns and rock shards. doesn't that sound fun?
hell. yes. it. does.
so how do i get there? plans, i got mad plans.
this one starts with garbage. see, for some unclear reason we don't have the garbage picked up curbside. once a month or so, we load it into the back of our 1987 Ford F150 and drive it to the dump. and when i say "we" what i mean is "not me." i like garbage to disappear- it's part of my american heritage. i like to put nasty stuff in a big black bin and pretend it had disappeared. leaving no trace.
except on monday- not long after the mustard on the back porch incident- as i flipped open the lid and started to haul 13 gallon tall kitchen garbage bag over the lip of the bin into oblivion i see wriggling, white traces of last week's dump excursion. stop reading now if you are eating chinese food or are squeamish.
maggots. hundreds of maggot all doing their nasty maggoty dance. squirming blindly about on the lid, down the insides, at the bottom. it's like the remains of a serious fly orgy- and it's fucking disgusting. i do the "maggot repulsion dance"- that ancient move of flapping arms, goose bumps on flesh, shaking head in a quick whip- while i try to figure out what deity i have pissed off to deserve this kind of monday. and then go right into problem solving mode of how to deal with these maggots.
because it is hard to get rid of maggots. first, you don't want to touch them. or look at them. or think about them. or write about them (unless you are me- and if have hung in here this long i really do appreciate it- cuz i know you are going to have to shower soon). but what to do with them? especially when they are already in the garbage where they are going to hatch into flies and have more orgies in your garbage and create the next 239 generations of larvae!
it's a conundrum. you can't vacuum them up- cuz then they are in there. you can't flush them down the toilet cuz then there are down there- and oh my- you would never sit there again! even if you pour some toxic sludge on them you still have to deal with their corpses. so it's a big problem to contemplate on a monday morning with less than 4 hour of sleep and a toddler who still refuses attempts at cleaning or clothing and a big brother who is supposed to be at a ukulele lesson in less than 2 hours.
and then the dark clouds of my mind were cleared away as the solution appeared- all five of them. cue disney music...
chickens. my lovely ladies: opal lemondrop, freckles la fluff, speedy cleo, matanewie, and amelia "jesus" one dot.
i flipped the lid shut and wheeled the garbage can into the yard. the girls gathered round. i lay it on it's back and opened the lid with a dramatic thud- revealing to the hens the hovering hoards all over- yes, this makes me itch to write- the garbage can.
they twitched their heads sideways and stepped closer- their claws clicking on the black plastic. they plucked cautiously at the first maggot- and then, holy hannah- it was like the had won the protein lottery! they couldn't gobble those grubs up fast enough. peck. peck. heck- yes! peck.
i stood transfixed. it was disgusting and awesome at the same time. i didn't want to watch but i couldn't believe it was happening so i needed the visual proof. maggots truly disappearing right before my eyes! maggot gone. over and over. and happy chickens to boot. chickens that were giving me eggs as a thank you for letting them eat those lil' wormy bastards. in less than 6 minutes there was not one maggot in sight.
i'll take that over christmas anyday.
and then- that's when the plan hit me.
people rent out their goats to munch blackberries. and their sheep to chomp pastoral lawns. and their pigs to root up...whatever pigs root up. you see where i'm going with this?
maggot patrol chickens.
got maggots? get chickens. my chickens. my girls show up and eat up your maggots like they are powdered sugar from the donuts in heaven. chickens give me eggs that i use to cook up french toast. you give me money that i use to buy maple syrup to pour over my french toast.
genius, right?
in any case, i still do this.
a small gesture- like stirring honey into a cup of tea- blooms into an old woman living her last days in a nursing home, desperate for a cup of tea fixed to her liking, but alas she can no longer talk and no one pays any mind to her grunting until one day a soft-hearted visitors takes notes and....well, it goes on from there. ending with lots of money being given to this kind person.
i like those kind of endings. bright red bows on the conclusion. neat and trim. no messy crap like real life- where nothing ever really ends...until we do. and stories that end with lots of money are fun to imagine sometimes.
because i sometimes like to wonder what it would feel like to just do stuff- like buy 4 tickets to a seattle play, kidnap friends or strangers and go. or to send a thousand bucks to the food bank. or to go to an art festival and actually be able to spend $39 on a pair of earrings made out of acorns and rock shards. doesn't that sound fun?
hell. yes. it. does.
so how do i get there? plans, i got mad plans.
this one starts with garbage. see, for some unclear reason we don't have the garbage picked up curbside. once a month or so, we load it into the back of our 1987 Ford F150 and drive it to the dump. and when i say "we" what i mean is "not me." i like garbage to disappear- it's part of my american heritage. i like to put nasty stuff in a big black bin and pretend it had disappeared. leaving no trace.
except on monday- not long after the mustard on the back porch incident- as i flipped open the lid and started to haul 13 gallon tall kitchen garbage bag over the lip of the bin into oblivion i see wriggling, white traces of last week's dump excursion. stop reading now if you are eating chinese food or are squeamish.
maggots. hundreds of maggot all doing their nasty maggoty dance. squirming blindly about on the lid, down the insides, at the bottom. it's like the remains of a serious fly orgy- and it's fucking disgusting. i do the "maggot repulsion dance"- that ancient move of flapping arms, goose bumps on flesh, shaking head in a quick whip- while i try to figure out what deity i have pissed off to deserve this kind of monday. and then go right into problem solving mode of how to deal with these maggots.
because it is hard to get rid of maggots. first, you don't want to touch them. or look at them. or think about them. or write about them (unless you are me- and if have hung in here this long i really do appreciate it- cuz i know you are going to have to shower soon). but what to do with them? especially when they are already in the garbage where they are going to hatch into flies and have more orgies in your garbage and create the next 239 generations of larvae!
it's a conundrum. you can't vacuum them up- cuz then they are in there. you can't flush them down the toilet cuz then there are down there- and oh my- you would never sit there again! even if you pour some toxic sludge on them you still have to deal with their corpses. so it's a big problem to contemplate on a monday morning with less than 4 hour of sleep and a toddler who still refuses attempts at cleaning or clothing and a big brother who is supposed to be at a ukulele lesson in less than 2 hours.
and then the dark clouds of my mind were cleared away as the solution appeared- all five of them. cue disney music...
chickens. my lovely ladies: opal lemondrop, freckles la fluff, speedy cleo, matanewie, and amelia "jesus" one dot.
i flipped the lid shut and wheeled the garbage can into the yard. the girls gathered round. i lay it on it's back and opened the lid with a dramatic thud- revealing to the hens the hovering hoards all over- yes, this makes me itch to write- the garbage can.
they twitched their heads sideways and stepped closer- their claws clicking on the black plastic. they plucked cautiously at the first maggot- and then, holy hannah- it was like the had won the protein lottery! they couldn't gobble those grubs up fast enough. peck. peck. heck- yes! peck.
i stood transfixed. it was disgusting and awesome at the same time. i didn't want to watch but i couldn't believe it was happening so i needed the visual proof. maggots truly disappearing right before my eyes! maggot gone. over and over. and happy chickens to boot. chickens that were giving me eggs as a thank you for letting them eat those lil' wormy bastards. in less than 6 minutes there was not one maggot in sight.
i'll take that over christmas anyday.
and then- that's when the plan hit me.
people rent out their goats to munch blackberries. and their sheep to chomp pastoral lawns. and their pigs to root up...whatever pigs root up. you see where i'm going with this?
maggot patrol chickens.
got maggots? get chickens. my chickens. my girls show up and eat up your maggots like they are powdered sugar from the donuts in heaven. chickens give me eggs that i use to cook up french toast. you give me money that i use to buy maple syrup to pour over my french toast.
genius, right?
Thursday, September 15, 2011
monday morn
i don't always sleep as i should. meaning, i should sleep solidly, for long stretches of time without interruption from any other living thing. i should sleep until my body eases awake with stretches and yawns. i should sleep until i am done sleeping.
this stopped happening over 10 years ago now.
i wake up for strange unknown reasons. i wake up for obvious annoying reasons. i wake up when children wake up or when i think they wake up. i wake up to make sure they are sleeping. i wake up. i wake up. i wake up.
but they don't. they sleep like logs fallen into a mossy green bed of lush fairy dust. they sleep like a boat on calm waves. they sleep like the biggest concern they had in the past 12 hours was that their mother didn't let them eat ketchup for dinner. they sleep like they are sandwiched between the two biggest, strongest hearts they know. they sleep until they wake up.
most of the time their sleeping and my sleeping are mostly in sync. sometimes they are a few hours off- i get up at 6 am. or i go to sleep at 10 pm. they nap while i blog. i nap while they....what are they doing while i nap?
and that's the thing. who knows what they do while i sleep and they do not. because this does happen sometimes. sometimes the sleep patterns are so crazy confused because i am up taking care of them and their fevers, their nightmares, their bed wetting, their mindless demands to nurse at 2:48 am....that by the time they are fully awake i am dead asleep.
case in point: monday morn.
papa is leaving town at 5:15 am on monday morn, so the big son decides he must sleep in the bedroom. two boys in bed with two grown ups has proven to be tortuous- so he pulls in the futon chair cushion- dragging it along the unfinished oak floors- dusting a path through legos, laundry and cat hair- and plops it at the end of the bed. small son decides immediately this is his bed and refuses to let big son do anything to this bed. all pillows and blankets are banished. it's 10 pm and i am repeating my mantra "it's time to go to sleep" as i myself drift toward drooling.
however, small son took an epic nap and all his cells are screaming "disco!" everyone else is asleep- well, i am as asleep as a mama can be whose 3 year old is not yet asleep, and small son is collecting books on the small bed- as big son rests right where he wants to be, next to departing papa.
several times, the light that i am not allowed to turn off is eclipsed by a large head and a soft voice saying "mama" while he thrusts something toward me. i mumble. i turn over. i try very hard to ignore him. but even as i begin to dream i hear him commenting on the book he is studying "dat bug gots big claws. he'll pinch you. he's eyes are big. he's scary."
i'm surprised i didn't dream kafka.
at 4 am papa awakes. and so do i. i sit on the couch like a mushroom, swollen and slow. he talks at me- i cannot comprehend. i have wild fantasies of making muffins to send him to the airport with but i don't even have the energy to imagine this. and then suddenly big son is awake. then papa is leaving, whisked away by a co-workers car and it's piercing headlines cutting through our dark kitchen. then big son is crying- that irrational and untouchable fear we get when parents leave. then small son awakes on the floor- frightened by the view of eye level rocking chair and the deep, dark, depths of the belly of the bed. it's not even 7 am yet.
by 7 am- i am back in bed. small son joins me at some point- his small chilled body curls into mine- and even tho i worry big son is looking up lego wars on youtube, i fall asleep.
strange words filter into my dreams but i push them away. i dream that i wake up as a big wind blows through the bedroom and presses the boys against the southern wall. but the wind is cooling and spirited so we all just laugh at her.
from a corner of the my mind comes a repetitive "hey!" it's from the left corner of my mind to be exact. from the left corner of the house- i realize as i wake more fully. somewhere near the back porch. the "hey!" is not hurried or worried, but persistent. a bit annoyed.
like i was, stumbling out of bed at 7:28. i walk less than 10 steps from the bed to the sun room- the back room of our home that faces east that is often flooded with morning sun- to find small son on the back porch. he is wearing a green striped t-shirt and nothing else. well, there is strange yellow smears on various parts of his chub. i stumble forward 10 more steps to the sliding glass door that separates him from me to find it locked.
from the inside- because that's the only way this slider can be locked.
i unlatch it clumsily and am greeted by a cheery kid holding a bright yellow bottle of mustard sans lid. his finger tips are also bright yellow i notice as he says "hi mom!" like it's nothing new to be locked out on the back porch, half naked with a bottle of mustard.
big son is below the deck in the yard, looking up at me sheepishly.
"did you lock him out here?" i croak out in my morning pre-coffee voice.
he replies with his eyes looking up at me "yeah. he was trying to hit me with a hammer."
and my parting thought as i trudge toward the bathroom, not at all surprised by the morning's sense of humor- although completely still sleep-deprived and mostly numb is "how come i never can find the hammer when i need it?"
this stopped happening over 10 years ago now.
i wake up for strange unknown reasons. i wake up for obvious annoying reasons. i wake up when children wake up or when i think they wake up. i wake up to make sure they are sleeping. i wake up. i wake up. i wake up.
but they don't. they sleep like logs fallen into a mossy green bed of lush fairy dust. they sleep like a boat on calm waves. they sleep like the biggest concern they had in the past 12 hours was that their mother didn't let them eat ketchup for dinner. they sleep like they are sandwiched between the two biggest, strongest hearts they know. they sleep until they wake up.
most of the time their sleeping and my sleeping are mostly in sync. sometimes they are a few hours off- i get up at 6 am. or i go to sleep at 10 pm. they nap while i blog. i nap while they....what are they doing while i nap?
and that's the thing. who knows what they do while i sleep and they do not. because this does happen sometimes. sometimes the sleep patterns are so crazy confused because i am up taking care of them and their fevers, their nightmares, their bed wetting, their mindless demands to nurse at 2:48 am....that by the time they are fully awake i am dead asleep.
case in point: monday morn.
papa is leaving town at 5:15 am on monday morn, so the big son decides he must sleep in the bedroom. two boys in bed with two grown ups has proven to be tortuous- so he pulls in the futon chair cushion- dragging it along the unfinished oak floors- dusting a path through legos, laundry and cat hair- and plops it at the end of the bed. small son decides immediately this is his bed and refuses to let big son do anything to this bed. all pillows and blankets are banished. it's 10 pm and i am repeating my mantra "it's time to go to sleep" as i myself drift toward drooling.
however, small son took an epic nap and all his cells are screaming "disco!" everyone else is asleep- well, i am as asleep as a mama can be whose 3 year old is not yet asleep, and small son is collecting books on the small bed- as big son rests right where he wants to be, next to departing papa.
several times, the light that i am not allowed to turn off is eclipsed by a large head and a soft voice saying "mama" while he thrusts something toward me. i mumble. i turn over. i try very hard to ignore him. but even as i begin to dream i hear him commenting on the book he is studying "dat bug gots big claws. he'll pinch you. he's eyes are big. he's scary."
i'm surprised i didn't dream kafka.
at 4 am papa awakes. and so do i. i sit on the couch like a mushroom, swollen and slow. he talks at me- i cannot comprehend. i have wild fantasies of making muffins to send him to the airport with but i don't even have the energy to imagine this. and then suddenly big son is awake. then papa is leaving, whisked away by a co-workers car and it's piercing headlines cutting through our dark kitchen. then big son is crying- that irrational and untouchable fear we get when parents leave. then small son awakes on the floor- frightened by the view of eye level rocking chair and the deep, dark, depths of the belly of the bed. it's not even 7 am yet.
by 7 am- i am back in bed. small son joins me at some point- his small chilled body curls into mine- and even tho i worry big son is looking up lego wars on youtube, i fall asleep.
strange words filter into my dreams but i push them away. i dream that i wake up as a big wind blows through the bedroom and presses the boys against the southern wall. but the wind is cooling and spirited so we all just laugh at her.
from a corner of the my mind comes a repetitive "hey!" it's from the left corner of my mind to be exact. from the left corner of the house- i realize as i wake more fully. somewhere near the back porch. the "hey!" is not hurried or worried, but persistent. a bit annoyed.
like i was, stumbling out of bed at 7:28. i walk less than 10 steps from the bed to the sun room- the back room of our home that faces east that is often flooded with morning sun- to find small son on the back porch. he is wearing a green striped t-shirt and nothing else. well, there is strange yellow smears on various parts of his chub. i stumble forward 10 more steps to the sliding glass door that separates him from me to find it locked.
from the inside- because that's the only way this slider can be locked.
i unlatch it clumsily and am greeted by a cheery kid holding a bright yellow bottle of mustard sans lid. his finger tips are also bright yellow i notice as he says "hi mom!" like it's nothing new to be locked out on the back porch, half naked with a bottle of mustard.
big son is below the deck in the yard, looking up at me sheepishly.
"did you lock him out here?" i croak out in my morning pre-coffee voice.
he replies with his eyes looking up at me "yeah. he was trying to hit me with a hammer."
and my parting thought as i trudge toward the bathroom, not at all surprised by the morning's sense of humor- although completely still sleep-deprived and mostly numb is "how come i never can find the hammer when i need it?"
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
skirting
on sunday i wore a long skirt to work. it fanned out like the flower petals, cloud feathers, whip cream. whenever i wear skirts or dresses like this i suddenly feel taller, expansive, grounded- despite cloud reference. i think it's because my feet are mostly hidden and my legs glide underneath folds of fabrics like a mythical animal. the swooshing of air with each step- like jelly fish i glide.
when i wear skirts like this i feel more connected to other women- women i have never met, from photos 100 years old or from parts of the world where they wear garments like this everyday- but choice or by force.
when i wear skirts like this i feel more protected, but not because i fear attack. like i am cherishing the trunk of my own tree of life. this miraculous womb. because if i can create life- i sometimes fear i can also take it. like kali- mad and wild. i hide strength under my skirt.
when i wear skirts like this i can pee standing up with anyone knowing. ok, eventually i could do this. with practice. without underwear.
i can herd children with the fence of fabric stretched from my hip to my hands.
i can smell the scent of the earth stirred up by my own rustlings- the musk of mold, the spice weeds, wet grass, dust, dirt, earth.
i sweep the ground with air created by my own strong legs.
the shade of my skirt tents the ground.
when i wear skirts like this- long, full skirts made out of fabric made out of plant made of the earth- i sway in a way that is all me. and more than me too.
when i wear skirts like this i feel more connected to other women- women i have never met, from photos 100 years old or from parts of the world where they wear garments like this everyday- but choice or by force.
when i wear skirts like this i feel more protected, but not because i fear attack. like i am cherishing the trunk of my own tree of life. this miraculous womb. because if i can create life- i sometimes fear i can also take it. like kali- mad and wild. i hide strength under my skirt.
when i wear skirts like this i can pee standing up with anyone knowing. ok, eventually i could do this. with practice. without underwear.
i can herd children with the fence of fabric stretched from my hip to my hands.
i can smell the scent of the earth stirred up by my own rustlings- the musk of mold, the spice weeds, wet grass, dust, dirt, earth.
i sweep the ground with air created by my own strong legs.
the shade of my skirt tents the ground.
when i wear skirts like this- long, full skirts made out of fabric made out of plant made of the earth- i sway in a way that is all me. and more than me too.
Monday, August 29, 2011
shift
in an unexpected turn of events- i am now driving a 1990 vw jetta. mostly. the minivan is still an option. the white minivan, that seats seven, has a storage bullet on top, automatic windows and locks, adjustable gas peddle, and all the other gizmos Ford thought to put in a minivan made for american families right around y2k. it is reliable and sensible and totally awesome in so many ways. and makes me feel like a 37 year old mother of two.
ingrid- the jetta- was new in the year i turned 16. she is now 21 years old. her spirit is wild, although her body is showing her age. she has a sun roof that begs to frame the bright stars at night for anyone interested in tipping back and looking up.
do you imagine doing this? what's in your hand while you do this? beer, cigarette, joint...this car begs to be owned by a rebel. this is why i like her. ingrid is somewhat of a temptress. she dares you to drive faster than you should, have music louder than you should and be gone longer than you should.
also have a roomy trunk for trips to goodwill.
and ingrid has a stick shift. along with that- a clutch. i learned to drive a stick shift in my early twenties on basheeba loop-loop. an elephant disguised as an Isuzu Trooper- circa 87?- she was a lovely beast. A trip to the store felt like a jungle sarafi adventure, and getting her in gear was not always easy.
same goes for ingrid but the difference is that she is not about safari. as i mentioned already- she's more about cruising, speed, sharp turns and seeing if you really can go 140 mph- because that's how far the speedometer reads. with loud music. and slightly frightened children in the backseat.
i like the business of shifting that requires engagement with the task of driving. i have to decide when and how. how loud do i want to rev it? how quick do i want to pass that motor home? i am Driver. i like third gear the best.
actually- i just like shifting in general.
except when typing. the keyboard i mostly use for typing no longer sports the shift key on the left. i think cyrus ate it. well, he probably didn't eat it...but he most certainly flipped it off. and the little rubber circle is gone too. as he did to the arrow keys and the comma and the N...and the other key that i don't really know what it is anymore....except that it sends me to the next line when i touch it, but it's not return key. so i don't touch it often. but all those keys have the little rubber circle which still does what i want when i touch it. not the shift key on the left- it does nothing when i touch it. even if i whisper at it first.
when the shift key went missing i stopped capitalizing the letter i because i type that with my right hand and it's too awkward to hit the shift key with my pinkie and the i key with my pointer. try it. not smooth at all.
so "screw it" i thought. why do i need to be I? i can just be i, right? little i is the same as big I. i. I. you get the idea either way. now and then i started a sentence with "in" or "instead" or "ice berg." ok- maybe not ice berg, but whatever i-word it was it was not I-word. it was just i-word. and i started to like it. so i started to stop capitalizing completely.
e.e. cummings, for example. if i ever had a reason to write that name before now i don't remember doing so. but it looks so much nicer than E. E. Cummings. doesn't it?
my name: nancylee bouscher has a better form than Nancy Lee Bouscher. Although that L is looking lean and proud, i notice. but the second option requires much too much shifting. nancylee bouscher. i can type that really, really fast.
not capitalizing wasn't about denying my ego or wanting to look different or anything other than lazy fingers. and a missing shift key. it's to the point now that when i type of computers with left shift keys- i completely ignore them. even if they whisper at me.
and now i get the added benefit or having another way to add Emphasis to a word. like in winnie-the-pooh, how milne would capitalize very Important Ideas now and then. ideas that adults really liked mostly, if i remember right- and often i don't. so feel free to look that claim up.
besides both being called shifting, i'm not sure what these two acts- going from first to second gear and capitalizing letters- has much to do with me, except that i am currently doing and not doing a lot of them. and i'm in control of doing or not doing them.
and in a world where a small child can come and flip off letters from a mama writer's keyboard- well, hell, it's important to exercise those Shifting Abilities.
ingrid- the jetta- was new in the year i turned 16. she is now 21 years old. her spirit is wild, although her body is showing her age. she has a sun roof that begs to frame the bright stars at night for anyone interested in tipping back and looking up.
do you imagine doing this? what's in your hand while you do this? beer, cigarette, joint...this car begs to be owned by a rebel. this is why i like her. ingrid is somewhat of a temptress. she dares you to drive faster than you should, have music louder than you should and be gone longer than you should.
also have a roomy trunk for trips to goodwill.
and ingrid has a stick shift. along with that- a clutch. i learned to drive a stick shift in my early twenties on basheeba loop-loop. an elephant disguised as an Isuzu Trooper- circa 87?- she was a lovely beast. A trip to the store felt like a jungle sarafi adventure, and getting her in gear was not always easy.
same goes for ingrid but the difference is that she is not about safari. as i mentioned already- she's more about cruising, speed, sharp turns and seeing if you really can go 140 mph- because that's how far the speedometer reads. with loud music. and slightly frightened children in the backseat.
i like the business of shifting that requires engagement with the task of driving. i have to decide when and how. how loud do i want to rev it? how quick do i want to pass that motor home? i am Driver. i like third gear the best.
actually- i just like shifting in general.
except when typing. the keyboard i mostly use for typing no longer sports the shift key on the left. i think cyrus ate it. well, he probably didn't eat it...but he most certainly flipped it off. and the little rubber circle is gone too. as he did to the arrow keys and the comma and the N...and the other key that i don't really know what it is anymore....except that it sends me to the next line when i touch it, but it's not return key. so i don't touch it often. but all those keys have the little rubber circle which still does what i want when i touch it. not the shift key on the left- it does nothing when i touch it. even if i whisper at it first.
when the shift key went missing i stopped capitalizing the letter i because i type that with my right hand and it's too awkward to hit the shift key with my pinkie and the i key with my pointer. try it. not smooth at all.
so "screw it" i thought. why do i need to be I? i can just be i, right? little i is the same as big I. i. I. you get the idea either way. now and then i started a sentence with "in" or "instead" or "ice berg." ok- maybe not ice berg, but whatever i-word it was it was not I-word. it was just i-word. and i started to like it. so i started to stop capitalizing completely.
e.e. cummings, for example. if i ever had a reason to write that name before now i don't remember doing so. but it looks so much nicer than E. E. Cummings. doesn't it?
my name: nancylee bouscher has a better form than Nancy Lee Bouscher. Although that L is looking lean and proud, i notice. but the second option requires much too much shifting. nancylee bouscher. i can type that really, really fast.
not capitalizing wasn't about denying my ego or wanting to look different or anything other than lazy fingers. and a missing shift key. it's to the point now that when i type of computers with left shift keys- i completely ignore them. even if they whisper at me.
and now i get the added benefit or having another way to add Emphasis to a word. like in winnie-the-pooh, how milne would capitalize very Important Ideas now and then. ideas that adults really liked mostly, if i remember right- and often i don't. so feel free to look that claim up.
besides both being called shifting, i'm not sure what these two acts- going from first to second gear and capitalizing letters- has much to do with me, except that i am currently doing and not doing a lot of them. and i'm in control of doing or not doing them.
and in a world where a small child can come and flip off letters from a mama writer's keyboard- well, hell, it's important to exercise those Shifting Abilities.
Friday, August 19, 2011
junk in the trunk
sometimes it's hard to know where The Teacher is going to pop up. sometimes i go somewhere thinking The Teacher will be there and She's not. most of the time this really bothers me. like a junky, i get irritated and itchy because i was soooo ready to learn, to evolve, to grow, to open, to bloom. but The Teacher wasn't there. fuck it, i don't want to learn anyway.
and then She shows up in these moments so subtly that i'm not even sure if it is Her at first. like, really? in this drunken scrawl on the metal door of a bathroom stall? this is where i transcend. The Teacher picks her classroom. even after years of experiencing this- i still am caught off guard easily.
She knows how to get my attention though.
this lesson starts with a car. a 1990, not a 91, jetta that needs to be sold on the fly because people essentially didn't do what they said they would. the car that was supposed to wind up in tucson sat in anacortes instead. the owner sits in tucson excited to start a new job- fretful because she's got no wheels to get to the rez school where she'll oversee lost teeth, belly aches and give pills to children for all the reasons adults have for doing such a thing. the important thing to know here- is that the car is not in "selling" condition. none the less, we buy it.
we didn't really need a car, exactly. we have a truck and a van- both with big old straws that suck up a lot of gasoline. and both with more than 200k miles on 'em. we have a plan for this jetta and it gives us some cushion if The Teacher decides to mess with that plan too.
first, we got to clean out the trunk. and when i say "we" i really mean "me." somehow everyone falls asleep before me one night and the trunk calls to me from the darkness of our driveway. this trunk is completely packed, by the way. when you open it you mostly see plastic garbage bags stuffed full with bits of fabric waving at you, rigid corners of forgotten bill envelopes, a seductive curve of a mug handle...and there's smell too. trunks always have a smell.
i also should add that the owner feels really badly about this. she offers to pay me to drive to the dump and just throw everything away- a chore i never could do for several reasons. first, there's the mystery. i love a good mystery. ever since my first nancy drew book i've been hoping for this kind of opportunity. second, there's the fact that i can't throw out anything that has a use. for good or bad. (except for legos left on the floor- i have no problem chucking out those feet killers). maybe you've already heard about the king size futon mattress i deconstructed on the back porch to avoid taking it to the dump? well, it was extreme...far more so than pulling in one of those garbage bags into my living room at about 10 pm one night last week.
which is exactly what i did...
if i had known The Teacher was going to be there, stuffed between old work files, swimsuits and a barbie tin of glitter nail polish- i would have taken notes. i would have slowed down into a meditative state and really paid attention to every moment. but as it often is- i just thought i was doing a chore. so i plodded forward, head down, hands busy.
it became very clear that i need a couple of bags to sort into. there was the trash- into it went candy wrappers, napkins, and the like. the paper recycling- the largest of the bags- where all the receipts, science class notes, birthday cards and more were deposited. then there was the pile of cool stuff that i didn't want...or stuff i had no idea what it actually was- small black t-shirts, a dinner plate with a country apple painted on it, a handmade ceramic jar full of green pennies and 1 small agate, and this large black plastic thingy my son tells me is a paintball gun loader. and the pile of stuff i thought was cool and wanted to keep- more about this later.
as i sorted through this stuff The Teacher began to circle the room, her eyebrow arched, leather shoes softly touching the ground in a steady rhythm of observation:
"see?" she said, "life gives everyone a lot of stuff to deal with."
"notice," she mentioned, "that sometimes things we care about get lost."
"imagine," she whispered, "what it would be like to have stranger's hands on your forgotten things."
and that's what i did. i imagined what it would be like if suddenly my trunk was open for all to examine. if my junk, from closets, old suitcases, under the bed, beneath the house was all laid out for someone else to sort through.
what would that feel like?
what would they learn about me?
most of the things i pulled from the trunk confirmed my impressive of the owner of the car- who i had only ever met once before, and had talked to a handful of times on the phone since then. she's passionate in a way that causes her to forget all else. she is drawn to bold colors and watery sparkles like a bird from a desert. she has good taste in music. she loves her children. she yearns for something and then goes to it. she reminds me of myself in many ways.
and she likes red shoes.
cuz missing shoes means someone hopping around, i think. because pairs go together. but i am so used, after the second hour of sorting, of finding only one shoe of each pair- i am not excited at first when i see the tip of red dansko clog.
i am shocked though. it is candy apple red- with only a little scuffing on the toe, a wad of old grass clinging to the sole, the black piping bold. i used to own these shoes. i bought myself a pair so long ago i don't know when. i remember the store and ordering them. i bought them as a birthday present for myself and it was the most money i had spent on shoes in a very long time. i don't think i have spend that much since. i wore these shoes raw. i loved everything about these clogs- and i could the strut my stuff in them like i never had a care in the world- until one day, i was over them.
one day, i pulled them out of my closet and they were too old, too worn, too used. they flopped on my feet with their skin faded to a dark, dirty brownish red. rather than seeing everywhere they had been- i just saw everywhere they would never take me. so i got rid of them.
i do this. i get rid of things i treasure. most of the time i completely forget about them until i see a picture of them or stumble into a memory of their importance or until i find an exact replica in an old trunk.
i was excited. i scrambled through the bag, casting aside fleece gloves, blue tank top, purple binder, searching for the mate. you know what i was thinking? i hope they fit me. i wanted a pair of red clogs. i remember recently when getting dressed i yearned for a pair of red clogs- my old clogs- and now here was a pair! yes, a pair!
two red clogs and me.
i put them on and stood. like cinderella, i so much wanting to be just like cinderella. they are a size 39, euro. and while this works good in some brands, in dansko i need a 40. but i didn't want to believe it. why would the universe put a beautiful pair of red clogs in the trunk of a car i bought for no damn good reason and then not have them fit me?
i walked around the house trying to calculate how long i could wear them before my left big toe would complain? a few hours...maybe. if i went to a movie- sure, of course- no one could see them, but i could do it. wear them to work- never make it to my first break. dancing? nope- never happen.
as excited as i to find these clogs- i was now equally distraught. because those red clogs reminded me so much about myself- and i wanted to be able to wear that knowledge around a bit longer.
then The Teacher, She smiles, and asks- the best teachers ask the best questions- "well, nancylee, whose clogs are these?"
i picture the gal who sold me this car. no doubt she misses these clogs and what they remind her about herself. maybe she doesn't even know they are missing. maybe she's going to wear her long black skirt today and is hunting around for them as i type. or maybe they aren't even her clogs at all but a girlfriend's or a lover's or her mother's or her daughter's.
but the point is- these are not my clogs.
and then The Teacher, walks real close to me so that i can smell her fragrance and know that she is so much more than a teacher- and she says with firm love, "you need to get your own clogs."
saturday is payday.
and then She shows up in these moments so subtly that i'm not even sure if it is Her at first. like, really? in this drunken scrawl on the metal door of a bathroom stall? this is where i transcend. The Teacher picks her classroom. even after years of experiencing this- i still am caught off guard easily.
She knows how to get my attention though.
this lesson starts with a car. a 1990, not a 91, jetta that needs to be sold on the fly because people essentially didn't do what they said they would. the car that was supposed to wind up in tucson sat in anacortes instead. the owner sits in tucson excited to start a new job- fretful because she's got no wheels to get to the rez school where she'll oversee lost teeth, belly aches and give pills to children for all the reasons adults have for doing such a thing. the important thing to know here- is that the car is not in "selling" condition. none the less, we buy it.
we didn't really need a car, exactly. we have a truck and a van- both with big old straws that suck up a lot of gasoline. and both with more than 200k miles on 'em. we have a plan for this jetta and it gives us some cushion if The Teacher decides to mess with that plan too.
first, we got to clean out the trunk. and when i say "we" i really mean "me." somehow everyone falls asleep before me one night and the trunk calls to me from the darkness of our driveway. this trunk is completely packed, by the way. when you open it you mostly see plastic garbage bags stuffed full with bits of fabric waving at you, rigid corners of forgotten bill envelopes, a seductive curve of a mug handle...and there's smell too. trunks always have a smell.
i also should add that the owner feels really badly about this. she offers to pay me to drive to the dump and just throw everything away- a chore i never could do for several reasons. first, there's the mystery. i love a good mystery. ever since my first nancy drew book i've been hoping for this kind of opportunity. second, there's the fact that i can't throw out anything that has a use. for good or bad. (except for legos left on the floor- i have no problem chucking out those feet killers). maybe you've already heard about the king size futon mattress i deconstructed on the back porch to avoid taking it to the dump? well, it was extreme...far more so than pulling in one of those garbage bags into my living room at about 10 pm one night last week.
which is exactly what i did...
if i had known The Teacher was going to be there, stuffed between old work files, swimsuits and a barbie tin of glitter nail polish- i would have taken notes. i would have slowed down into a meditative state and really paid attention to every moment. but as it often is- i just thought i was doing a chore. so i plodded forward, head down, hands busy.
it became very clear that i need a couple of bags to sort into. there was the trash- into it went candy wrappers, napkins, and the like. the paper recycling- the largest of the bags- where all the receipts, science class notes, birthday cards and more were deposited. then there was the pile of cool stuff that i didn't want...or stuff i had no idea what it actually was- small black t-shirts, a dinner plate with a country apple painted on it, a handmade ceramic jar full of green pennies and 1 small agate, and this large black plastic thingy my son tells me is a paintball gun loader. and the pile of stuff i thought was cool and wanted to keep- more about this later.
as i sorted through this stuff The Teacher began to circle the room, her eyebrow arched, leather shoes softly touching the ground in a steady rhythm of observation:
"see?" she said, "life gives everyone a lot of stuff to deal with."
"notice," she mentioned, "that sometimes things we care about get lost."
"imagine," she whispered, "what it would be like to have stranger's hands on your forgotten things."
and that's what i did. i imagined what it would be like if suddenly my trunk was open for all to examine. if my junk, from closets, old suitcases, under the bed, beneath the house was all laid out for someone else to sort through.
what would that feel like?
what would they learn about me?
most of the things i pulled from the trunk confirmed my impressive of the owner of the car- who i had only ever met once before, and had talked to a handful of times on the phone since then. she's passionate in a way that causes her to forget all else. she is drawn to bold colors and watery sparkles like a bird from a desert. she has good taste in music. she loves her children. she yearns for something and then goes to it. she reminds me of myself in many ways.
and she likes red shoes.
cuz missing shoes means someone hopping around, i think. because pairs go together. but i am so used, after the second hour of sorting, of finding only one shoe of each pair- i am not excited at first when i see the tip of red dansko clog.
i am shocked though. it is candy apple red- with only a little scuffing on the toe, a wad of old grass clinging to the sole, the black piping bold. i used to own these shoes. i bought myself a pair so long ago i don't know when. i remember the store and ordering them. i bought them as a birthday present for myself and it was the most money i had spent on shoes in a very long time. i don't think i have spend that much since. i wore these shoes raw. i loved everything about these clogs- and i could the strut my stuff in them like i never had a care in the world- until one day, i was over them.
one day, i pulled them out of my closet and they were too old, too worn, too used. they flopped on my feet with their skin faded to a dark, dirty brownish red. rather than seeing everywhere they had been- i just saw everywhere they would never take me. so i got rid of them.
i do this. i get rid of things i treasure. most of the time i completely forget about them until i see a picture of them or stumble into a memory of their importance or until i find an exact replica in an old trunk.
i was excited. i scrambled through the bag, casting aside fleece gloves, blue tank top, purple binder, searching for the mate. you know what i was thinking? i hope they fit me. i wanted a pair of red clogs. i remember recently when getting dressed i yearned for a pair of red clogs- my old clogs- and now here was a pair! yes, a pair!
two red clogs and me.
i put them on and stood. like cinderella, i so much wanting to be just like cinderella. they are a size 39, euro. and while this works good in some brands, in dansko i need a 40. but i didn't want to believe it. why would the universe put a beautiful pair of red clogs in the trunk of a car i bought for no damn good reason and then not have them fit me?
i walked around the house trying to calculate how long i could wear them before my left big toe would complain? a few hours...maybe. if i went to a movie- sure, of course- no one could see them, but i could do it. wear them to work- never make it to my first break. dancing? nope- never happen.
as excited as i to find these clogs- i was now equally distraught. because those red clogs reminded me so much about myself- and i wanted to be able to wear that knowledge around a bit longer.
then The Teacher, She smiles, and asks- the best teachers ask the best questions- "well, nancylee, whose clogs are these?"
i picture the gal who sold me this car. no doubt she misses these clogs and what they remind her about herself. maybe she doesn't even know they are missing. maybe she's going to wear her long black skirt today and is hunting around for them as i type. or maybe they aren't even her clogs at all but a girlfriend's or a lover's or her mother's or her daughter's.
but the point is- these are not my clogs.
and then The Teacher, walks real close to me so that i can smell her fragrance and know that she is so much more than a teacher- and she says with firm love, "you need to get your own clogs."
saturday is payday.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
picture this
the thing about a blog without pictures is that you have to create one with words. i envy picture blogs sometimes- a photo of child with chicken and a catchy caption. how long does that take exactly? especially if your phone takes pictures, with cool retro effects, and you just email off to your blog site as you wait at a red light somewhere between here and there.
and i love those blogs.
but this blog has more struggle to it- that's my way, i guess. like now- i've been up since 3 am and even before that i didn't sleep well. i went to bed by 9 with a stabbing pain in my back. woke up at 11:34 because my left was suddenly weepy and stinging- only to find that my eldest was still awake, despite my very clear instruction to all that it was to be an early night. and then at 2:48 the toddler waddles in the bedroom, determined to nurse me out of any chance of sleep.
whereas years before i would have sipped tea, read a book or written in a journal- i go to check me email, do a few quick errands via this wooden chair and the keyboard, and then decide to write in the blog. a fairly egocentric affair, i feel at times. what makes me think i've got anything worth while to say? at least when you write in a journal you don't need to really say anything. hell, you don't even ever have to read it again!
but since i'm here- and so are you. i'm gonna do my bestest to make this worth our while.
when i woke up at 3 am- my brain is not a happy place- that's why i'm awake. in that fuzzy space my head does this fucked up mind trip where all is wrong. it's like eeyore, without his tail, his house blown down, on his birthday with no thistles to eat....times five thousand. the list i start to make could be titled "why everything i have ever done was a clausal mistake." it is ridiculous. but at 3 am, laying in bed with sore back and weepy eye ("well, maybe if you took better care of yourself...." says my brain) it's hard to pull myself out of it. until i just pull myself out of bed.
the bad mood lingers- i critiqued everything i see. it's grouchy. if it were a color it would be puke green. it is were a smell it would be puke green. but it's in my head- and harder to get rid of than puke- of any color.
until...
there's this tiny laugh somewhere between my ears. it's kinda like the laugh of yoda or the dalai lama (as if those are two separate entities). i ignore this giggle at first. i throw some puke green thoughts at it. this makes it laugh even harder. the chuckles turn the green less pukey. i shrug, roll my eyes- like a teenager determined to be pissed long after i even remember what the hell made me so angry.
this causes more laughing. i cringe. more laughing. i smile. more laughing. until this laughter says to me: none of that matters. i try a few more...what about THIS green puke thought?
nope. doesn't matter. giggle.
how about when this smelly funked out shit happened?
sorry. irrelevant. snort.
ummm, ok- well, remember how i still haven't done XYZ?
(wheezing sound of breathless laughter with subtle thuds of fist banging on wooden floor).
and then, my tail is back on, my house is rebuilt, i'm singing happy birthday to myself, and a patch of thistles sprouts at my feet. because it doesn't really matter that i have no idea where find clean clothes to wear to work tomorrow, or that my son stayed up too late and will be a lumpy mess of complaints when i wake him up, or that i didn't drink enough water yesterday, or that i forgot to pay the dentist....again, or that i don't know how to properly train a parakeet.
all that matters is that i am here. whatever "i" means anyway. all that matters is that i am still on this journey. that i am awake is a gift a thousand people didn't open this morning. all that matters is that i can feel puke green or zesty orange or beige. i can feel beige, damnit. that's something to celebrate...in a beige sort of way.
all that really matters is that i can hear that laugh. over all the other noise- i can still hear the giggle of redemption- some call it amazing grace.
and even though there are a lot of great photos in the world, on blogs, tucked inside greeting cards, tattooed over the scars of battles fought and lost or won or never taken on- there's no way i could have shown you that laugh without these words.
and i love those blogs.
but this blog has more struggle to it- that's my way, i guess. like now- i've been up since 3 am and even before that i didn't sleep well. i went to bed by 9 with a stabbing pain in my back. woke up at 11:34 because my left was suddenly weepy and stinging- only to find that my eldest was still awake, despite my very clear instruction to all that it was to be an early night. and then at 2:48 the toddler waddles in the bedroom, determined to nurse me out of any chance of sleep.
whereas years before i would have sipped tea, read a book or written in a journal- i go to check me email, do a few quick errands via this wooden chair and the keyboard, and then decide to write in the blog. a fairly egocentric affair, i feel at times. what makes me think i've got anything worth while to say? at least when you write in a journal you don't need to really say anything. hell, you don't even ever have to read it again!
but since i'm here- and so are you. i'm gonna do my bestest to make this worth our while.
when i woke up at 3 am- my brain is not a happy place- that's why i'm awake. in that fuzzy space my head does this fucked up mind trip where all is wrong. it's like eeyore, without his tail, his house blown down, on his birthday with no thistles to eat....times five thousand. the list i start to make could be titled "why everything i have ever done was a clausal mistake." it is ridiculous. but at 3 am, laying in bed with sore back and weepy eye ("well, maybe if you took better care of yourself...." says my brain) it's hard to pull myself out of it. until i just pull myself out of bed.
the bad mood lingers- i critiqued everything i see. it's grouchy. if it were a color it would be puke green. it is were a smell it would be puke green. but it's in my head- and harder to get rid of than puke- of any color.
until...
there's this tiny laugh somewhere between my ears. it's kinda like the laugh of yoda or the dalai lama (as if those are two separate entities). i ignore this giggle at first. i throw some puke green thoughts at it. this makes it laugh even harder. the chuckles turn the green less pukey. i shrug, roll my eyes- like a teenager determined to be pissed long after i even remember what the hell made me so angry.
this causes more laughing. i cringe. more laughing. i smile. more laughing. until this laughter says to me: none of that matters. i try a few more...what about THIS green puke thought?
nope. doesn't matter. giggle.
how about when this smelly funked out shit happened?
sorry. irrelevant. snort.
ummm, ok- well, remember how i still haven't done XYZ?
(wheezing sound of breathless laughter with subtle thuds of fist banging on wooden floor).
and then, my tail is back on, my house is rebuilt, i'm singing happy birthday to myself, and a patch of thistles sprouts at my feet. because it doesn't really matter that i have no idea where find clean clothes to wear to work tomorrow, or that my son stayed up too late and will be a lumpy mess of complaints when i wake him up, or that i didn't drink enough water yesterday, or that i forgot to pay the dentist....again, or that i don't know how to properly train a parakeet.
all that matters is that i am here. whatever "i" means anyway. all that matters is that i am still on this journey. that i am awake is a gift a thousand people didn't open this morning. all that matters is that i can feel puke green or zesty orange or beige. i can feel beige, damnit. that's something to celebrate...in a beige sort of way.
all that really matters is that i can hear that laugh. over all the other noise- i can still hear the giggle of redemption- some call it amazing grace.
and even though there are a lot of great photos in the world, on blogs, tucked inside greeting cards, tattooed over the scars of battles fought and lost or won or never taken on- there's no way i could have shown you that laugh without these words.
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