This morning I dreamt I was male, pregnant, and in labor. My friend was
female, pregnant, and in labor too. We sat facing each other with our
feet pressed together, breathing hard and pushing. Creating, creating,
creating. Will have to see what comes next.
Foggy Sunday morning.Clouds drape the hills, and mist rides the air like memories of Oregon
roadtrips, condensing on branch tips.
Already, the mist is glowing brighter, which means soon
enough the sun will burn a hole through the clouds and heat away the overcast.A couple quail stop by the yard to peck at
It’s Easter for the Christians.Resurrection.The morning’s fog on the hills is vanishing,
though still like a mesh scrim over certain peaks, and there are rich blues
hanging in the blowing cotton sky. The air is a layered collage of birdsongs and bees, and
couple-birds swoop here and there.I
open the glass door to share the day, and a little brown bird is industrious in
the leaves.His repetitious 3-kicks-and-a-peck
remind me of a dancing cowboy.
I have been a mind and ability; I have been plans and focus
and fiery hopeful belief.But when you
speak, keys fall through your voice, and go unlocking me, freeing a body that
erupts beneath my eyes and lips.My
long lost body, beautiful and imperfect, silken-haired and scarred—a wild thing
full of magnets, now pulled toward you and all the keys falling through your
It’s magic, to grow legs and feet and breasts and
hands, and yet, my body confuses time and disrupts my eagle-eye and dream
strategies, by leaning forward, by wanting and ringing, ringing like that tinkling
pile of keys left on the floor after your oblivious magic tricks.And I say nothing, go back to my long-term goals,
but I don’t fit on the chair anymore; my legs kick, my ass bumps the cushion off,
and I’m a wild animal in the house.
My missing half of me returned, now I don't fit.Shoved from my logic dreams, in a body, I’m lonely.Yet how can I not be
grateful for the amazing trick and replay how all you did was talk, and here I unlocked
and went unfurling like I’ve been a jack-in-the-box all along.
So now I’m a tangle of hips and arms and belly, wrapped 'round
with one-eyed plans, but for those minutes when you told a story, I remembered
how to be complete.Thanks for the unlocking
and zap and the beautiful electricity powering you, even if now all my hands
get in their own way.Still, the trick
was glorious, and terrible and more real than I’d remembered.
Bless your voice’s keys, and now let me tend to this weird,
Not to mention the most obvious of St. Paddy's history-twists, that it celebrates when St. Patrick rid Ireland of snakes, as if Ireland ever had snakes, when that's simply a metaphor for the huge attack launched against individual people when the Christians tried to stomp out the native pagan traditions.
I think holidays are most
valuable for reminding us to let go and celebrate sometimes, but why not
celebrate for better reasons? Celebrate the victories whatever size,
the fortitude, the beauty, the memories, the reminders, the thankfulness
for being here together?
Celebrating heals us, and there's so much to pay tribute to and enjoy. Toast to the real life we're sharing here.
Definitely fall going on, as the miraculously colored
turning leaves scatter down in certain charmed minutes, as if some hidden squirrel
is conducting from a branch above, tongue out in concentration, watching the
day’s symphony, “And GO,” he motions and seven yellow aspen leaves drop
diagonally through the air, with three tapdancing across the brick patio.“Yes!” the squirrel whispers, nodding
approval to the relieved and awed performers, who nervously shimmy leaves,
getting ready for their next solos.
Devoted to the performance, they all continue whether anyone’s
watching or not.I’m totally doing
something else, when I happen to glance up during an obvious crescendo—thirty golden
leaves raining on the yard like Zeus’s impregnating shower.Danae and I applaud the show with our legs
crossed.“I’ll just watch from over
here, thanks.”She says she’s had enough
gold to last her awhile, and then plucks an aspen leaf from my hair. She offers
it to me like this bright leaf is the treasure of dark winter.I can see why.
(photo: "Presence, lap full, among the wild roses" -Dawn Sperber)