It’s cumbersome the load that can fit into one week. The hourly planner connects all the dots for my week of appointments, deadlines, emails, bills, chores, and meals.
I could go on.
So Sunday night I put on armor of lists, routines, and tidy things.
The beat begins again on Monday and I hop every note to the song in heavy boots double knotted.
This morning I am jumping through a slow crescendo after small talk with a barista. I turn the car back on with aspirations of familiar notes when I see alerts that my oil is too low.
I could tell you all the reasons the dashboard lights are urgent. I can’t tell you how I’m suppose to now incorporate new music.
Find me the algorithm that proves the load that fits into one day is heavier than a week and I’ll tell you thanks for the definition of anxiety.
Make sure you include how music turns to math, but only the kind that holds scenarios, the kind whose energy is needed to prevent the bad, to keep the good, to pray away deepest fear. That energy is gone by breakfast.
I’m embarrassed already so please keep your eyes from rolling as we sit down to a dinner of leftovers.
When you ask, “How was your day?” Could I instead tell you all the things I kept from stealing it? Let’s start with how the car did not break down because I replaced the oil. . @letsescapril prompt 3 on “anxiety” #escapril2019
((For my daughters and all the daughters to know they are the tulips for this Spring and the hundreds following. And we are here— there will be others— undoubtedly marveling.))
Tulips can push themselves through barely thawed ground without growing claws without wearing armor without the till to soften and fluff their bed.
Their bodies detailed paper with perfect posture even with their load all on top their shoulders.
I like to think they enjoy us marveling at how they lead the season, marveling at how they trust their instinct, marveling at how much we forget we need them, as they smile in blooms and grow in bounty.
In 5th grade Art class our new project was to make clay food. The teacher asked it to be life-like.
But at home I saw a pile of clay berries shiny and perfect sitting on the sill above the sink.
So I decided to make a giant strawberry— different than all the rest— as a surprise gift to the collection.
I didn’t know the teacher would use me as an example of what not to do for years after, asking, “Have you ever seen a strawberry this size?” . I didn’t know 5th grade would give me the lowest grade I’d ever get in Art.
I didn’t know how embarrassed I’d feel for taking a risk and smiling proud as I turned my project into the kiln thinking how creative I had been.
And I didn’t know how long my mom would keep that giant strawberry on the sill proud and asking, “Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Fresh language revives me better than a hot cup of coffee. Its fingers motioning secret access to another world only lasting another moment, while I break the magnetic pull of my warm layered bed of cotton soft in curiosity as my daughter declares, “The sunrise is waking us up with all its colors.” . With the blinds closed she must have seen it seeping through the front door’s glass on her way down the stairs. I heard her feet pause— before coming to get us, before settling down on the couch waiting for us to pull the curtain open, before asking if she could guess the names of the shades in the sky— awe gave her a moment of true worship.
I don’t need dinner with steak, more pearls to keep tucked away, or a dozen red roses to know I’m loved.
Who decided on twelve anyway? Why not a bundle of seven to make it interesting so I can ask what it means, and you can say, “because I love you all seven days of each week.” . Or how about a rose for the number of times you had to reach for my hand just yesterday to reassure me in my whirling you are my safe place.
This morning there isn’t pressure besides the tea party we throw for our girls this breakfast. You refill my coffee, clear the dishes, and then read our daughters’ valentines while I write this love poem you don’t even know about yet.
I don’t need all the fancy in all its bright loud lights to scream what I hear in calm whispers all morning. This comfort we made is loving me just right.
If you’re new here, hi and welcome! Usually after I post a poem, I write a little musing about it, in hopes of starting a coffee shop conversation in this little corner of the internet. So finish your coffee and pull up a chair. Here are some thoughts on yesterday’s poem, “Let’s Talk about the Weather” that was not about the weather and all about the impact of hate.
It’s so much easier to talk about how much we hate the cold (it is preeeetty cold!), but what makes it so much harder to talk about the coldness of hate?
What I do know is this: it snowballs. The snow storm starts in flurries… Aggravated driving because someone is driving too slow, so we give in to rage having its say. Impatient complaints bubble to the surface when the service is too slow. We let ourselves go down the spirals of “Why would she say that?” to each other, and not to her, spotlighting her ignorance, and our glorious rightness.
Maybe, maybe, we could wait for the answer next time, from the person who said it. Maybe take them out for tacos and hear where they’re coming from. Maybe they’ll ask how it sounded to us, too. We could still disagree, but maybe we’d still enjoy the company.
Honestly? I’m guilty of all this. But I’m determined to watch for the temperature dropping in my own heart, and apologizing when it does. There’s a lot of beauty waiting for us when we say out loud where we were wrong and in our humility, commit to do better next time.
I am pretty sure love and empathy and a huge warm front live right there. ❤️