Beautiful Foolishness

Bursting from the confines
of appropriate
and polite
and compliant,
I exploded!
Ran down the street
with arms and legs flailing.
Did a pirouette in the
produce aisle.
Stomped my foot
and yelled with a roar.
Rolled in the grass
like a playful pup.
Jumped in the ocean
fully clothed.
Sang wicked loud
in a crowded room.
It's not chagrin
this pink on my cheeks.
But flush
from the rush
of beautiful,
unrestrained
foolishness.

Discarded

She wonders if he remembers the night they found that cat? Left to fend for itself in the winter woods, it died by the trail--as if it waited for someone to come back. Collar with its name, no address or phone. Alone.

He carried it to the vet, along with his warped sense of humor. "Were you attached to it?" she mocked. "Yes, and then I abandoned it," he replied--each of them poking fun at the intimate confessions they'd shared. Achilles heels, laid bare.

Ironic, how easily they laughed at the inevitable.
In his absence now, she remembers . . . poor discarded "Love."

Letting Go

Every week, via email, I get my horoscope courtesy of Rob Brezsny (www.FreeWillAstrology.com). His words are wise and wacky and wonderful. I think they appeal to me most because they are symbolic, rich in analogies and mysteries you have to think about for a while.

This week, for example, he bid those of us born under the sign of Cancer "to make 'in the buff on the holy mountaintop' your power metaphor of the week. Blend sacredness and nakedness in any way that appeals to your imagination, especially if it's in high places or makes you high."

At first, I didn't get it. I thought maybe this was one of those weeks when my orbit just wasn't in sync with the rest of the planets.

And then, today, in a series of events that made me definitely "out of orbit" in an angry and I've-had-enough sort of way, I got it. Because, in the process of angry and I've-had-enough, a small whisper of realization got louder and louder.

"It is time to let go of this."

To be honest, it has been whispering it for many years, I just chose not to listen. I was afraid to let go. I was afraid of the consequences. I was afraid of what I might find, or not find, if I sloughed off yet another layer of something I'd been holding on to.

"It is time to let go of this," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I called my friend Martha to verify.

"Well, it's about time!" she said with much enthusiasm.

Apparently, she'd heard the same whispers and was wondering when I would get around to it.

About an hour or so later, a friend emailed to say she was trying "put faith in front of fear" today, and I breathed in her words, deeply.

"It is time to let go of this."

There is a certain synergy happening here, and I feel it. With that one simple, powerful sentence--there is change, and validation, and release.

I feel…lighter.
Naked, one might even say.

Kismet

In Nashville, she bought a rock star coat--black leather with sequin-flowered sleeves and a rhinestone, mid-calf hem. In the dressing room, she laughed--it was a perfect fit; "I'd never wear it," she told the saleswoman, "back home, we're all L.L. Bean and Talbots."

She bought it anyway and hung it by the door--her alter-ego, set in wait.

Then she met her new neighbors, Zach and Joe, walking their dogs. "This is Amy and this is Pacho," Zack said, "they have a cabaret act."

When they invited her to their house warming party, she knew exactly what to wear.

Unrequited, Perhaps

Identity Theft

I looked
in the mirror
and saw nothing.
Pieces of familiar fall away.
Sticks poke at what's left.

Start from scratch
or use a box mix?
Put square peg
in square hole...
that's never been my style.

I took a walk
to get answers.
Insert A into B, get C.
But all I saw was ocean.
Vast and unresolved.

IT doesn't seem
to need answers.
In. Out. Back. Forth.
Up. Down. [Repeat.]
I take my cue and leave.

It's OK. Really.
I was bored with her anyway.
If you please,
may I see something
in a polygon?

Tea Ceremony

We're sharing a cold this week, comparing our symptoms daily.

"Are you sneezing yet?"

"No just coughing. And I'm cranky."

"Yup, me, too."

I take her recommendation and make a cup of green tea with honey. Quietly, I stand at the kitchen counter, following the instructions.

1. Bring fresh, filtered water to a boil.

2. Place one filterbag in your cup, mug or gourd.

3. Pour 8 fl. oz. of water over filterbag.

4. Steep for 3 minutes while contemplating your favorite eternal mysteries.

I close my eyes and silently ponder, "Who the hell drinks out of gourds these days?"

Gone the Familiar

She arrived in '97 at the age of 10, after her first "Mom" died. After my Dad died, and life felt suddenly empty.

We needed each other, I think. I needed her, certainly.

"She's grieving," said a Reiki Master, a few months later, as she held her hand above CJ's tiny six-pound frame. "Here," she said, then slowly eased her pain.

Later than night, CJ scaled the loft-wall above my bed and landed with enthusiasm on the pillow next to my head. It was the first time she came to me, uncalled.

Each night thereafter, she would come to bed with me, sitting by my head as I relaxed, tossed to the right, tossed to the left and began to fall asleep. She knew the routine. It was only after I'd tossed one final time that she would tap at the blankets for me to let her in, and curl into my stomach for the night.

In the morning, she'd get impatient. Four hits of the snooze button was enough for her, and she'd begin pacing up and down the bed as if to say, "OK, it IS time to get up now." When I didn't listen, she'd stick her face in mine--"Hello?"--her whiskers making me sneeze awake.

They say cats are either born from jungle cats or desert cats. If there were ever a species of water cats, those were CJ's ancestors. She loved to drink from the faucet, or neglected glasses of water. She took her place on the rim of the sink when I brushed my teeth or washed the dishes--looking ready to pounce. In later years, she began taking showers with me. At first, I thought she was being silly and senile. And then I realized she'd stopped grooming herself--no doubt the arthritis made it more difficult than a brief stroll through the tub. She even seemed to enjoy the morning blow-dry!

In the summertime, CJ would sit on the screen porch, watching the birds fly by and lounging in the sun for hours. In winter, she took to the warmth of the computer monitor and slept all day above me as I worked. She cursed the day the flat screen arrived--work hasn't seemed the same since.

When the day was done, I'd turn off the TV, shut off the lights and head upstairs--with CJ no more than two steps behind me, every night.

It's difficult to talk about her--and her sisters Emily and Crystal--without sounding like the stereotypical single woman, the "cat lady" and all that. But she was--they are--my constant companions.

CJ, though, was special. She and I shared a bond that seemed, at times, almost human. Familiar. Often, when we sat together, she would stretch herself out and rest her paw on my hand. When I was sick or sad, she'd pay special attention and snuggle in just a little closer.

On her last day, she went out on the screen porch. It was a warm March morning, and she sat for a while, under a blanket I draped over her. She seemed to enjoy the sun, bright in her face, and the sound of the birds making ready for spring. So, we stayed there a while, and I rested my hand on her paw, snuggling in just a little closer...one last time.


"As strong as you were,
tender you'll go.
I'm watching you breathing,
for the last time.
A song for your heart,
but when it is quiet,
I know what it means
and I'll carry you home."

- James Blunt

In Transit

They made love in his cabin on the train from Boston to DC. The jostle of the cars lent assistance to his old, tired body as he tried to please her. Later, she rested her head against his shoulder; he combed her hair with his fingers while she stared out the window. "I could love this man," she thought. In the food court at Union Station, she read his recent short story, relishing in the intimacy of the moment. "Do you like it?" he yelled above the din. "What happens at the end?" she asked; it was over too abruptly.

She Was My Daughter

I was there the night he raced home to welcome his new daughter. I was there when he got divorced; we toasted with champagne. And then she was mine--on weekends and school vacations for four years. I barely recognize her now. Her MySpace profile paints a picture hard to look at. She calls herself a loser, and worse. "Rebellion" inked large in the tattoos she boasts about. But it's more than that. She is angry and unabashedly telling the world with every self-destruction. It is my fault. I should have saved her instead of trying to save myself with him.

The Things We Do

She wasn't surprised, really. Like a feeble handshake, he'd made a poor first impression. A car salesman now starring in the role of entrepreneur. She could tell from the fake intonations and extraneous praise. She hadn’t heard from him since Jack was born a year ago. She'd gone into labor early and he hired another contractor because he couldn't wait. They needed the money, though, so she didn't hesitate. "Of course, we'd be happy to help you with that, Mr. Roman," she said, trying not to smirk as he handed her his credit card. It wasn't even his real name.

Can I Have My Technology on the Side, Please?

As anyone who knows me will tell you, I like my technology in small doses. A little bit of convenience here and there doesn't hurt, but I just don't feel the need to be plugged in all the time.

Sometimes, it doesn't make sense. Case in point: on Thursday, I needed to make a change to my checking account, so I called the direct line at my bank and this is how things went...

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service woman.

"I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

"Do you have access to our online banking?" she asked, which was not the yes or no answer I was looking for.

"I don't know." I responded.

"Well, give me your account number and I'll find out for you."

I gave her my number, and she put me on hold while she went to access my account.

"It looks like you set up online banking in 2005," she said, some five minutes later.

"Oh, I didn't know that."

"Do you remember your User ID and Password?"

"No."

"Ok, well, if you can answer your security question, then I can give you your User ID and Password."

Security question asked and answered correctly, she gave me my online banking info and explained, in detail, how to go to the website, which buttons to click, which numbers to enter where and so forth.

"Thank you," I said as I got online and hung up the phone.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password." read the screen.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but this is not the correct information. Please enter your User ID and Password."

Click this button. Now this one. Enter my User ID and Password, again.

"We're sorry, but there have been too many attempts to access your account. We have now locked you account for security reasons. For the unlock key, please enter your email address here."

Apparently, "If at first you don't succeed..." does not apply with online banking.

Click this button. Now this one. Enter email address. Press return.

"Thank you. Your unlock key will be emailed to you shortly. DO NOT CLOSE THIS BROWSER WINDOW until you receive your unlock key."

So I sat and waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. No email. No unlock key. BROWSER WINDOW OPEN.

Elapsed time since initial phone call: 35 minutes. I closed the browser window and called the direct line at the bank.

"Hello, thank you for calling your bank. How may I help you?" asked the customer service man.

"I was trying to make a change to my account online, but I seem to have entered the wrong information and now I'm locked out. It's been 15 minutes, but I still haven't gotten an email with the unlock key."

"Sometimes it takes a while." he said.

"Is this something you can help me with?"

"No, you'd need to call our Online Banking Customer Service Department and they can walk you through the process."

"OK, well, let me go back to my very first question then. I need to make a change to my account, and I'm wondering, is this something I can do over the phone or should come in to the bank?"

He laughed. "Sure, give me you account number."

Tap tap tap, I hear in the background. Two or three questions asked and answered. Tap tap tap.

"You're all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"

Elapsed time since second phone call: 3 minutes.