Making the Bed

Wednesday,
2:00.

A crystal’s rainbows
dance about
in southern sun,
as I fluff pillows
and straighten sheets.
Its intention:
new energy
in this space we shared.

Why is it then,
I think of you, still?

Dream Sequence

Technicolor,
full-length feature—
he comes to me
each night.
Every night.

In patchwork scenes
from waking-life…
across the table
in a diner,
by the water
near the beach,
in an elevator
at the museum.

Extras walking
back and forth,
standing, waiting.
I don't recognize them—
or him.
He is the news anchor,
the clerk at the store,
Bill Clinton?
I laugh and turn over
in my sleep.

"Where are you?"
I ask.
"Are you OK?"
"Are you safe?"
He responds
as if reading a
script I wrote myself.
My words, my answers...
drop meaningless
on the pillow.

I can feel him—
his hand in mine—
and smile
before waking fully.
Small comfort
in the quiet
of this empty stage.

The Magazine Experiment

One of my favorite magazines used to be Martha Stewart’s Living. The photos, the tips and ideas, the recipes—I loved it all. What I loved most, though, was the illusion that if I owned this or bought that, my house would look like her house—color coordinated furniture and linens, flawless design, perfect accessories.

The antique, sterling silver tray that housed my olive oil and balsamic vinegar? A Martha tip. The cobalt blue bottle to store my dish soap? Martha. After all, who would want those offensive condiment and soap bottles sitting out on the counter without accoutrement?

Those little domestic embellishments were paving the road to my ideal—so beautifully laid out in the pages of Living. Those little domestic embellishments were costing a fortune. The silver tray? $75 to creatively display $10 worth of condiments. The blue bottle? $35 put the $1.39 bottle of Joy to shame.

The truth is, it wasn’t her house I was looking to emulate, it was her life. In the back of my mind, I thought that if my house looked like her house, certainly my life would look like her’s as well—joyful holiday dinners, warm and intimate family gatherings, copious friends celebrating around feasts for kings.

I can’t blame Martha for the illusion of the life I was striving for. The promise of its possibility was presented to me at every turn—on television, in newspapers, on billboards and the internet. Seducing me from the magazine racks prominently displayed at the checkout stands—“Create Your Dream Home,” “Give Life to Your Living Room,” “Bedrooms Like the Stars.” At one point, I was the proud subscriber to Living, Cottage Living, Country Living and Better Homes and Gardens. As a bonus, I was automatically added to mailing lists of catalogs from near and far—two dozen at last count.

Each month, these glossy tomes of dreams would arrive in my mailbox, reminding me that I wasn’t quite there yet. To achieve that life, there was more to do. More to do, and more to buy.

And then, something happened.

I can’t remember why or when. There was no watershed moment, just a feeling. A realization. I loved my little house. I loved my random knick-knacks collected over the years, the photos of family and friends in mix-matched frames, the worn-out quilt draped over the thrift store sofa. And yet, it kept feeling like it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough because each month there were these reminders that I needed more. I needed the trendy kitchen appliances. The curtains and carpets and pillow and throws in this year’s “hot color.” The beaded chandelier for the bedroom. The decorative soaps for the bathroom. And when I got too much of the stuff I needed more of? Purchase decorative—but functional—storage containers, of course.

Purchase this. Buy that. I was caught up in an unending cycle of getting more to have more, with very little satisfaction. The cobalt blue bottle did look pretty next to the kitchen sink, but it didn’t make life any more joyful or fulfilling. No one noticed the silver tray with the condiments, it just collected dust and needed to be polished every month.

And so, one day, I stopped. I canceled my subscriptions to the magazines. I resisted the urge to buy them at the grocery store. I tossed catalogs in the garbage without even looking at the covers.

It has been three years since those books of dreams cluttered my life, with interesting consequences. I rarely have the impulse to get and to buy. I don't go shopping every weekend, or keep a wish list of things I need to purchase for this room or that. I’m not seduced by sales fliers or advertising promotions—I simply throw them out. My credit card balance is near zero. My house is not fit for the spread of a magazine. But when gathering with family, or celebrating with friends, my house—my home—is filled with things I love, things that have meaning and memories. Filled with the life I was looking for all along.

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.