but what if the rains never come
she said
and of course, i had no answer
wanting to say
i promise
but instead
changed the subject
to ice cream
and good books
as the hard scorched earth
burned up through
the soles of my flip-flops
tomato plants wilted
we talked of dinner
and sucked on ice cubes
from empty glasses
of lemonade
and there was not one cloud
in the sky
On Monday, my daughter was driving home from our camp and found a kitten on the side of the road. A tiny kitten. An injured kitten, one leg splayed off at an oh-so-wrong angle. A scared kitten.
She called to ask for advice, and I told her to go to all the nearby houses to see if it belonged to anyone, and if not, to bring it here.
Mind you, I have five cats. Mind you, I can’t afford another one. But still, it was the right thing to do.
She brought it home and I made some calls, and was advised to take it to the Humane Society, where most likely, it would be euthanized.
It was a very young black kitten, long-haired, with a face like a cute little bat. I almost took a picture, but then decided not to. I tried not to look at its sweet little face as we drove to the shelter. I tried to think about how we were doing what was best for everyone involved, I tried to think that maybe they would fix it, save it, put it up for adoption.
In truth, I don’t know what they ended up doing. And, in truth, I don’t want to know. I want to leave the possibility open that it survived. In truth, I wish I had taken it to the vet and paid a giant bill that I can’t afford and brought it home to become one step crazier on the crazy cat lady scale.
Oh, I know, I did the best I could. But I can’t stop thinking about that little face, so vulnerable, so sweet, so small. I can’t help wishing I had been able to save one more tiny kitten, or for that matter, the world.
Yesterday, I came across this quote by May Sarton: “The hardest thing we are asked to do in this world is to remain aware of suffering, suffering about which we can do nothing.”
Of course, I know this is about far more than tiny kittens. So much of the world needs saving. So much of the world cannot be saved.
But why is it that doing what seems like the right thing feels oh-so-wrong?
How is it that the person that actually hit the cat was able to just keep on going, and I can’t stop thinking about the poor little thing? I can’t stop seeing that little bat face.
Perhaps it is simply too much a reminder of the fragility of life. Perhaps I am projecting some inner sense of vulnerability. Or the kitten was just a dark, fuzzy metaphor for all the things I want to save in this world, but cannot. Perhaps I just have a soft spot for kittens.
Or, perhaps, I am just plain crazy.
Either way, sometimes the world is a cold, hard place. More than likely, I should leave the word sometimes out of that sentence.
I have to put that knowledge in my back pocket for a while and walk around with it.
I don’t know what else to do with it just yet.
.
.
.
sadness weighs
the opposite of happiness
and everybody wants to fix
the world
we’ve fooled ourselves into
thinking we’re in charge
simply because gravity is
kind enough to keep us here
but look at these clouds
painting mother nature’s
fury
only she knows the truth
and being the good mother
she’s not telling
(for our own good)
you storm out
all stomping feet and
slamming doors
pretending it’s your job
to change the view
to make it clear
to reconnoiter
rescuing hope from
boxes marked fragile
playing god
and hide and seek
olly olly oxen free
at least, you think
you’re free
rain weighs
the opposite of
light
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
