Brake out! I have emerged with wings and sunning disposition after feeling a bit nervous about the silence, as if a perpetual motion machine of crooning crickets were to suddenly stop their song. All of which sounded, and felt very wrong, both before and after competition, Canton City, and old, cold, take-out. How to feel about the lapse in writing with the burden and demands of a new school year. I am so busy now. The writing must take the back burner.
A kind of let down. Like what falls among brown leaves after a summer of colorful introduction to a friend, or reaquaintance to a former lover. Platonic, yet sometimes promiscuous email fare to profe’. Suddenly g-mail does not work in the workplace, and I begin to lose usernames and passwords, faces and smiles as if doing a forty day fast. Oh… but how can one not be expressive for very long? Turn to gratitude and Nature. And then the muse returns.
But first I had to suffer mail returned not mailable. Couldn’t see him anymore no matter what I did or tried. This too was unsettling. Wondered if there was somehow a “Law of Repulsion” in play, but feeling that this in no way exists. The “Law of Attraction” must follow laws, and I am a magnet. There is either love, or the absence of it. Suddenly I knew what “filling buckets” meant and wanted more than I could beg, or borrow, or purchase. Wondered if there was some larger message I was supposed to be receiving other than a change in seasons, end of summer ushering in of another find. Fluttering of cupped hands and butterfly wings and “change”… in the promise of children and new learning. Heard whisperings of “Let it go,” and “Come unto Him, and He will come unto you.” Perhaps he comes through you.
And then Profe’ was somehow found again in wishing me a good first day back. And me receiving this gift in this discomfort of transition. And him not knowing if I have or haven’t heard his voice. I am a bit sad for him in my knowing he will never be able to embrace a back to school like a “dear friend.” Can’t help but wonder what it takes to be a “dear friend” and worthy of partaking whole foods. Profe’ will never be able to say or feel the same for himself in post retirement, except in memories, or perhaps in reading the stories I am living now. How will he survive? If I never responded again, would it be too cruel? I wonder at the power of the moment, much like holding that butterfly on the trail, caressing it like a newborn child, or a sleepy puppy in training, or a class of nine-year-olds hung over from summer. The power is within me. An awesome stewardship. But more importantly, “Where do we go now in all this teaching?”
Easy to lose grip, to harm myself with this smooth, but sharp stick, if not carefull. I wend my way home in the dark after parking a little too long at the Spillway. The dogs have run away. Venturing an expedition of weathered and eroded sandstone giants. Unrecognizable two months ago…..like myself….provide a truer picture of clarity, unlike CRT scores. I am beating out a rapid rhythm with my speckled sage hen hiking boots almost running away on my way home. I’m twirling the most splendid, smooth driftwood stick in a repeated elliptical pattern as if putting a soul growing charm on myself like Hermine.
The smooth, and pleasing slip through the fingers, catch in the palm of the hand feels a bit like fly-fishing, and not. More like making Cafe Rio flour tortillas. Can still feel residual sand granules on the white sands stick. I find myself thinking this is way too pleasurable, not unlike being aroused by a hot-off-the revolving grill tortilla.
The flavors spin and bubble up buttery on my tongue like climax. Smile and close my eyes at the thrill, feeling the last little bit of freely tossed flour mingling with buttery grease between my thumb and index finger. I feel I am getting extra amenities meant for royalty in this thing.
I remember the trill and snare of fingers under the smell and spell of lotion testers, down the aisle at a Phoenix Whole Foods. Not expecting it to get better in a produce workers proposition. Why does anyone ever doubt their worth or capacity to love and to be loved, when in these moments we resonate larger than this earthly life? But then too, we do forget.
Not so long ago I remember wondering if I was beyond feeling…..if I was a lost case, even capable of loving and being loved. I was wrong in subscribing to these lies. No longer. Sometimes I still fall prey to wired enticing and down turns, but know that they are simply lies like so many we are fed in life. I have the power to direct my thoughts to positive, and to climb off those other dark horses when given pony rides.
Frodo is my champion, and in figuring out a riddle, I think on Pastor Scott Fine’s sermon. He speaks of people being desperate for love. And how some answers lie in listening. The scriptures speak of people in the last days being an hungered for bread, but never filled, and being thirsty, but never quenched. Sounds a bit like the alter ego me. And somehow in the look around, walk around, talk around, wish I could speak intimately with Anita Archer to see what kind of wisdom she’d impart, or if she’d find the time for me between the work and cello lessons. I would do my part if I could forever dial in to music for my sapio sexual heart on a customized Pandora string channel.
The crickets have megalamorph sized lungs to sing and sing and sing their song. Only problem is ………”What are they saying?” I am no polyglot. I blew through the front room looking for hiking socks. Found a gospel choir with Maria Carry talent in the final round, who didn’t quite make the cut, and think the crickets very much like these soul mates……singing songs loud and clear. So loud, they fall unheard. What is their song? Would it be one of the Masters? Of course. These are another species. These are in no way crickets of Canton City, but wish on their close relatives, and on the restaurant a total transformation to match the hopeful open sign. Roll of thunder hear my cry.
In opposition, I look down at dry and dusty paths of powder that cry out, ” I am thirsty!” Then up above to cumulonimbus clouds that promise rain tonight, at least before the sunrise, filling thirsty mouths, making for a most restful rem sleep. The ashes of last week’s wild-fire call out against green pockets of thriving oakbrush. I think on this stark contrast. Green- the frequency and essence of the physical realm….alive because of water and the Son. This is the yen. Then, the black-the soiled, stinking, filthy reminder of desolation is the yang. I have been told that spiritual energy resonates in light; and physical energy, in water. Wow! No working hydrants on the hill as power is still out.
I wonder on surviving Rockport homeowners……if they wake up every day thinking thoughts attracted to these energy states? Do the sunny side of the mountain people wake up rested and full of love and hope. Do the shadow land people wake up cursing life and coveting their neighbors view? I wonder how the mountain resonates in different areas. I want to be a Jodi Coleman deep touch therapist. I want to give the Mountain life a deep masage in hopes of finding out deep truth, and magic. Kneading through the needing to be loved. Lavishing in essential oils on mountain burn, and skin like currants of a million bushes mixed and mingled on my purple hands and lips.
I think on power poles….UP &L. Where love provides the electrical current that sets a million ventrical cells to pulse and pump and play Jumanji on my chesty drum. You strum these hearts strings like a steep mountain hike. Reduce me to fallen power lines. Like guitars and mandolins in Kentucky bluegrass blending like savory coffee. The cream and strumming seemless without distinguishable beginning and end. I wish these songs to go on and on in looping. I wish to never tire of these things that don’t grow old to their musicians.
The songs fall softly on my face, slide sweetly across my lips, like wine in sweet submission to loosen a work week grip and tight stiff hips not used to making love. The tunes that make me meek, and gentle like my fuzzy sweater. This cover up clothing that causes some to like me even better than the usual gritty dry wit. Without this music life is wrong. Was wrong. Without this love the world an empty tomb lacking direction and resurrection. With love, I am a chestnut long-haired dachshund hanging on you every word and whim, imagined touch. No need for leashes. I linger near most willingly. How can I whimper? Every need is thought of until I’m speechless. A feeling I’m not used to.
When and where did this begin if we have and are and will forever be light and energy. Intuition tells me I was correct in seeing clouds. My head and heart are in the cirrus. In making out their forms and shapes. I feel I could most happily wait in listening awestruck to the sound of summer thunderstorms brewing outside my midnight moonlit window. Your voice a gentle rain.
Forever be and make a space for me. Please. And fill it with lots of trees and water falls to pic nic near. With lots of fluttering. I will provide the bravery and a generous window for writing. I hope for now and always I will profit from my Profe’ who taught me words, and love and critical thinking.