Might take a while but I think we all recognize the “good” in “goodbye”. Maybe not simultaneously or even assign it the same weight or meaning.
Weightlessness is fine for wandering or aimlessly bobbing around, here and there. But there came a desire to be grounded, certain, and that never happened. It is then we choose, again, direction and propulsion.
We do this, change course, many times in life — whether by choice or organically.
I am so blessed to be loved and valued, and that is all I know, right this minute. Right, this life.
’tis a gift, this life.
How the heck did I get so lucky to
-be here (one smart mother).
-know what I know (open, curious, insatiable mind).
-shepherd my child (excellent karma).
-be loved by a handful of stellar souls (and I mean honestly Loved — in that 4 AM, unconditional, whatever-you-need, take-you-as-you-are way we Love people).
-and be lucky enough to have people to Love, and like, in return.
Don’t know how it happened, but I am so very lucky…and I would not change a thing or lodge a complaint with the manager or send back scrambled eggs when I asked for over-easy. Everything is a gift. Including you.
In 2001, My very good friend taught me to “ask the Universe for what you want. Be specific, and ask that whatever it is, it is the best one for *you.*” So, I did as I stepped out the door of The Institution* into a new chapter. The crumbling Mercedes I’d been driving was barely good for parts; the garage offered $450 to put it out of it’s misery but I could not be without wheels. So, I quietly asked the Universe for a car. One that would be perfect for us – a single working mother and her even busier child. 12 years later we are on our second PT Cruiser (the first a lemon but no fault of my asking). It has been the perfect car for us.
In 13 years my asks have been few. I fear emptying the well with my requests so I have kept the asks to a bare minimum. Someone’s health, another’s healing, mending of a broken heart, money for oil/gas/food/a school activity, etc. Most of my asks have all been answered. I see this now this morning, my hair wrapped in an old towel covering muddy henna hair, the cat asleep on the table beside my typing, she’s napping on a ukulele case, the byproduct of another small, quiet ask – albeit a longstanding one.
A couple years ago I silently asked for a new guitar (or ukulele). The 30+ year old guitar from high school days had finally given up and breathed more mold than music. We sold it at the estate sale last month, and the household uke we had popped the bridge nearly taking out an eye. It was irreparable and we tossed it in the dustbin. Yesterday, a new friend, who makes and repairs guitars and other fine strummery, offered to sell me a barely used ukulele from his stash. Our conversation was quick, efficient, and most of all unforeseen. We exchanged tokens and I returned home last night, Martin uke in hand. I stayed up late teaching myself what I used to know, and feeling grateful for how everything eventually falls into place.
Journal entry, 17 April, 2014.
The dairy farmer is out with his gun.
Three shots fired. Almost too quick for a rifle. Handgun, maybe?
In the dark, three short explosive pops briefly echo through the hills. I breathe quiet, waiting. I imagine the spring calves scattering nervous wobbly-legged, and nightblind.
Two minutes, three, five
no moo nor coyote howls.
Yard dog, central air compressor.
Him: “Looove your wild, plaid poncho!”
He is shepherding his two wiggly small people into their way-too-big mini-van; one of whom, the smaller, has dashed out behind the car between our cars–the driver trying to back out of her space, thankfully aware of the dasher, who has been dragged back by his father to the van. The other small, a girl, about six, is not misbehaving, and seems to know how not to be naughty. She climbs in and buckles herself, competent and quick.
“Thank you!” I reply, waving a hand, sweeping behind the steering wheel as my two teens (mine and her guest) ready to nap on the rainy drive home. They are fed. Now they sleep. Big babies without the car seats.
The dasher is suddenly flinging about the lot in the light rain. His father lurches to haul him back.
“HORACE!!!” And the father — slim, 30s, brown collegiately-messy slightly professorial hair with side part, in jeans and European looking jacket, latches onto the boy’s arm. There is much squirming and squealing, reminding me of how our dog (also three-ish but with two less legs) thinks ‘come inside’ is an invitation to run away and leap all over the backyard. Father clicks the imp into his cushiony perch-with-belt and begins a light but dictatorial lecture.
“Now, Horace? …Holiday…?” This is when my teens quietly chime in about the significance of names and what possesses people to identify others so uniquely. I roll up my window and head west. One likes “Horace”, one likes “Holiday”. We think of other “H” names that would be rare and less-than-playground-common.
Our favorites were “Helium”, “Happenstance”, “Hummingbird”, “Hatch”, “Herse”, and “Halitosis”.
Horace and Holiday, finally tamed.
The old house on West Pulaski.
It is a falling-asleep sound snow turning unheard to blustery icy tiny cannonballs against the panes separated by damask curtains of black and white we go about our evening alterations one to blanket one blanketed both to rest a spell one to melt one to manifest desires and epiphanies in tomorrow’s light.