earth cracked and dry
like the skin on my knuckles
the only difference
is the blood that seeps
through my skin
signs of life
cannot be mistaken
as proof of growth
sapped out seedlings
burn bury burn
crackle crumble
the will to live survives
the pain of scorch in
this desert of days
moisture moves
beneath the surface
with a ripple and a whorl
as the weight of memory
pulls me under
.
.
.
::
whispering promises
that always come true
because if nothing else,
we’re always changing
and i stand in the
star-shaped shadow
of everything you’ve
ever given me
trust and hope
filtering down through
to my roots
blushing pink
and smiling
at the sky
::
that keeps you
pokes and prods
pricks and feeds
from the marrow
of your soul
blood and toil
aren’t that hard
to come by
we know this
there’s always
someone willing
to work for less
more to come
hurry up and wait
tread that mill
like you mean it
mean it
fill the empty spaces
places
faces
with
traces
of heart
that will later
be erased
::
you stand there
in a dream
with all the right words
held up on cards like
Dylan’s Subterranean
Homesick Blues
::
and i smile
at the ones
you throw away
::
Last night, I stayed up until two a.m., reading. I had the remnants of a migraine, and though I know that seems counter-intuitive, one of the few things I can do when I have a migraine is read.
I went to buy groceries in the early evening, which was a bit of a struggle, but while I was there, I suddenly knew that I needed a book. One that I could read all in one night, one that would transport me.
And so, The Language of Flowers jumped right off the shelf in my direction, sounding right up my alley with its main theme of flowers and their Victorian-era meanings. And love.
And in the end, forgiveness.
I came home and arranged myself on the couch with a plate of fruit and cheese for dinner, and let myself be drawn into the story. My husband came home from golf and I said hello, but not much else.
I had, as my mom always used to say, my “nose in a book.” Really, it was usually more like, “Get your nose out of that book and set the table.” Sigh. Just one more page…
My husband turned a baseball game on, I never even looked up to see who was playing or ask who was winning, and a few minutes later, he was asleep in his chair. This is the way of things in our house, he gets up everyday at 2:30 a.m., so by 8:30, he is usually snoring.
I only moved to lower the volume on the game, choosing not to turn it off, it seemed just right as background music. And then a bit later, I stopped reading to let the dog out and smile at the fireflies dancing in the yard.
At midnight, I got myself ready for bed, with 100 pages left to go. And then it was time to decide if I would keep reading. I knew that if I continued on, I would read through to the end. I knew that I probably shouldn’t, that I had to get up early and get work done, that I’m not a teenager anymore, that summers can’t be spent as if I have nothing to do.
Harrumph.
At around 2:00 a.m., I finished the book. It made me cry.
I turned out the light and watched fireflies out the window for a bit.
And now this morning, of course, I am exhausted. But it was worth it. A good book is always worth it, and feeling, just for a night, that it is summer and I can stay up late and do whatever I want, even if that includes dancing with fireflies in my dreams…. that was just what I needed.
My life is changing this summer, as it does every season, but this year, it is different. I gave myself the gift of time, giving up our summer jewelry shows because I missed my garden, missed my reading, missed having time to notice the fireflies.
It was a hard decision, a risky decision, an “I’m not at all sure this is the right thing to do” decision. But last night, I was very, very sure.
Sometimes you have to give up the things that aren’t working.
Sometimes you have to pull the weeds that have crept into your life to make room for the flowers.
And sometimes, you have to stop everything and just sit for a moment, enjoying the view.
i don’t have to walk far
to get to perfect
and by this i mean
perfectly imperfect
because the other kind
(impossibly perfect)
exists only on paper
and in the smiles of children
and it is only
in the learning to admire
the imperfections
those tiny bits of life
with scratch and bruise
the rose half eaten
by a japanese beetle
the lines
on your face
that spell
time
the chip
in the polka dot bowl
you bought me
the tan lines
caused
by my
flip flops
the skin i settle into
a little further each year
that i can stand here
hands cupped
trying to hold
the fluidity
of life
and of course
(imperfectly)
it slips through
my fingers
drips
bits of hope
and sadness, tears
you caught with kisses
and a gallon or two
of little girl
giggles
and
i don’t even try
to catch them all
just
the three left
resting in my palm
like shiny
mercurial marbles
washed clean
on the shores
of today
Recently, my son moved out. It’s not the first time, it’s the second, so I wasn’t overly traumatized, but it is a big adjustment.
We are empty-nesters once again. Dynamics change, patterns shift, life changes. And goes on.
We miss him very much, but we are happy to see him moving forward in life.
Two weeks after he moved and got settled in, he came to pick up the one of our five cats that is his.
Another adjustment.
She is the playful little girl cat, the one who gets along with everyone, the mediator. My son found her in the middle of the road when she was just three weeks old. We had a hard time getting her to eat at first, she wouldn’t take formula from a dropper, and finally we made a mash of food and formula that she dove into, face first.
Every time she ate, her entire face would end up coated with food, and she cleaned herself so often that she rubbed all the hair off her nose. She is the cat that has always made us laugh.
But, we are adjusting, we know that she is safe and is on the next adventure of her life.
Our other cats however, are having issues.
We can’t explain to them that she isn’t truly gone forever, she is just someplace else. And so, they search for her, they mourn, they wander the house.
The kitty in the photo (Missy) is our second oldest, the mother hen, the brooder. I took her outside with me the other evening, and she kept searching the horizon with her eyes, scanning the woods near our house, looking for Charlie.
Our second oldest cat, Pepe, is the silent type, the steadfast sentinel. It’s hard to tell what he is feeling, but he wanders the house and keeps trying harder than usual to get outside.
Naughty kitten, “He Who Must Not Be Named,” is hardest hit, Charlie is his best friend, in truth, the only other cat in the house that truly likes him. He is lost. Two nights ago he somehow managed to wiggle his way up under the quilt on my bed, and lay there like a lump under the covers for quite some time. He’s never done this before. He has spent twice as much time inside as normal, he is restless, angsty, needy, sad. He misses his playmate.
I try to explain to him that she is not gone like George, she is just somewhere else. But, of course, you can’t explain these things to a kitten. And yes, this means I talk to my cats.
Only our oldest cat, the Queen, is unaffected. She has never cared much for any of the other animals that have come into our lives.
You may think that I am crazy, attributing all these thoughts and emotions to cats, but I have lived with them all long enough to know their patterns and habits, and the change is clearly visible.
This weekend, we plan to have my son bring Charlie for a visit. Hopefully, that will make everyone feel a bit better.
Because as far as these cats are concerned, this empty nest stuff is for the birds.
And I am a a slightly crazier crazy cat lady.
there’s a crack in the wall
just above the staircase
that returns no matter
how many times i
patch it up
fill
sand
repaint
a few months later
there it is
again
.
before
i moved here
some 26 years ago
this house was moved from
two roads over
rooms
uprooted
and balanced
on a flat bed truck
then hauled across fields of corn
and set down here
in this new spot
to grow
a new history
and
settle into
this land this view
this corner
but that crack
that scar
is always there
just to remind me
of the many
definitions
of
impermanence
