Donuts, Doggies and Dreams

Go, my child, and have an adventure. Wipe away the tears and anxiety, for something new awaits. I will miss you, of course I will. But I am also expectant of what lies ahead. I want to hear about sights that make you lose breath. About thoughts that make you stoic. About people who make you giddy. About events that make you cheer. About heartache that makes you better. About your life that is lived well. So don't worry about leaving me because my job is to strengthen you, prepare you, embolden you to do what the world insists you do. That's always been my job since I became "Mom". And as you carve out your place in the world I will be here, watching, cheering the loudest, loving you more than myself, wondering at the incredible human you have become. July 10, 2019

The neighbor's porch light illuminated the foggy curtains and cast light onto her cheeks--your cheeks--and I caught my breath at the pain and the memories.  The girl cried out during the night and there I was, rocking her back to sleep and missing you. I could not imagine how deeply I feel your absence...every day.  I wander by your favorite purple sweatshirt and inhale the scent that still lingers.  Out pops the toast, a little burnt, and I think how that was your preference.  I take pictures of my children and wish I could share them with you.  I look at my phone, your number, and just want to talk to you one more time.  And I dream about you, waking up with tears cascading down my face.  I miss you. And yet, life moves on.  I guess that's the way of it, huh? One life ends and we continue.  Life continues.  The ebb and flow of human existence.  And I look at her cheeks--your cheeks--and I know one day it will be me.  And then...

 Shed the skin of human and come with me. Adopting the life of a bird. Carefree, flying, free.   What do the cares of people mean to us? Watch as my clothes are erased and I stand as I was birthed. Watch as my arms evolve, sprouting feathers, my skin stretching to form gliders. Watch as my nose grows to a point, as my eyes become more predatory.  Watch as the fat and muscle of my legs slides away and leaves what is necessary.   Watch as my brain reorients itself into a survivor, losing human knowledge and replaced with bird instinct.  And now watch as I practice my first attempts at flight.  I fall; I stumble; I crash but then I fly!   I do it! Soaring over roofs, over human existence, over trees, barking dogs, screaming kids, burning dinners.   I just fly. If my bird beak could do it, I would smile and laugh, but that's my human brain speaking.   What I've known is gone.  It's no more.  And I'm falling, stu...

 I drove in the rain today. Not just spittle on the windshield but torrents.  Wipers on full blast and still doesn't help torrents. Can't see the perimeter of the lane torrents. Go a good 10 mph under torrents. It was majestic and a bit scary, but I guess all truly majestic things are scary. And I wondered at the amount of water but also how that rain, that drop, has been recycled for eons.  Found in a lake somewhere, pushed up to a cloud, to be released on my windshield--over and over and over again.  If we do life right, isn't that what we're supposed to do?   Recycle everything.  Broken hearts, Dreams, Failures, every experience.   We find it, push it around a bit and then release in some new format.   I am certainly not that 20 year old who was anxious, shy, close-minded, hypocritical.   I've had many broken hearts and many dashed dreams and many times of rebirth since then.  But I've been able to use all of it, a...

My grandmother liked me least.  It was obvious to everyone.  Charity or Zack walked in the room and her eyes brightened.  I walked in and she looked for the other two.   But every Thanksgiving, she made me nachos.  Turkey, corn, potatoes, rolls, cranberry sauce....and nachos.  It was her love in a bowl.  Not huge.  Not her favorite, biggest love, just enough to fill a bowl.   I used to love nachos--that's why she made them.  But now, all I see is her face when I look at it and all I taste is the third-place taste of being less loved.  December 5, 2018

Feet aching. Back aching. Head aching. Unclinch the tight belt. Slip on the sweatpants. Exhausted. But then a warmth. A presence with soulful brown eyes and a wagging tail. My hands comb his soft fur and soak in his heat. His tongue massages my sore feet and I feel stress melt away. He knows, doesn't he? He can feel my aching. He knows what I carry. Yet his magic cures me. Strength to go again.  March 11, 2020

 The last vestiges of your existence are disappearing before my eyes.   The rouge hair left on the shirt hanging in the closet.  The memorial plant that is slowly withering despite my attention. The whisper of purple that still hangs in the back of my closet.  The picture of your smile that catches me off guard every time I see it.  It's all fading and I so desperately don't want it to.  I hate that the price of love is this--these grasping, fleeing moments of you.  I hate that because I loved you, I feel this way.  For brief moments, I ask whether it was worth it.  But of course, it was.  Of course it was.  The iridescent honeycomb of the bubbles in my hand.  Snow flakes that dance like glitter through the air.  7 degree wind that kisses your cheeks perfectly to cause heat.  Icicles that grow longer and wider with every dripping drop.  Tiny avian prints left in the perfect canvas of snow.   There ...

 I always thought that falling snow didn't make a sound. Creeping up on us until we're aware enough to notice it. But that's not right. As I sit outside, huddled under blankets and layers, I realize that snow does have sound. The soft "snuff" as a flake hits the inch of other flakes.  Creaking of the trees as the weight of snow adds to it's burden. Unnatural quiet of area houses and streets as people warm by fireplaces, watching.  Occassional bird chirp as he sings to all who will hear about this uncommon sight.  How utterly, indescribable the whole scene is.  It almost seems fake. Like there's a huge machine planted on the roof, blowing fake snow for dramatic effect.  I wait to hear a director yell, "Cut!", but no...this is not make-believe.  This is real.   Scenes like this one cannot be fabricated.   In a few hours, the streets will be swept clean. Bootprints will mar the clean canvas. White will turn into sludgy gray.  But ...

 What is it that beckons me from slumber?  I'm asleep, dreaming, nesting in my bed, satisfied until a live ember begins in my belly. A spark.  And it continues to grow warmer, enticing me to hear the calling of the creative.  Get up! This is the time!  I obey it.  Silent house, slippers on, hot tea, and anticipation. What will my fingers find today?  Assuredly it will be worthless but there's always that chance. The chance that the recipe is perfect today and what is produced is magic. It's for that magic that my body thums.   Will today be the day?   December 6, 2020

An empty field with a pond, proudly wearing a coat of fog.   I so desire to explore,  letting dew soak through my jeans.  The fog tickling my body as I carve a path. Watching the neon orange orb in the sky and marveling with restricted breath  as it's color dances over my body.  The sounds of insects and distanced frogs echoing in the quiet. The water flowing over reeds and stumps and rocks.  My thoughts bouncing from one thing to another yet distinctly aware of the gift of "now". No agenda; no time limit; no "hurry-it-up". An empty calendar and my artistic leanings guiding the way. I drive by the field with fog and look through my windshield at the almost-awake-sun. I feel my toes crammed into my high heels and the mask on my face. My calendar is full of things that need to be done and my mind follows the "To-Do" list. But my heart craves that expedition.  Maybe one day.  September 21, 2020

The waltz begins, cheery and bubbly. All masks are tightened, eyeholes aligned. Breath is slightly inhibited but no one cares because of the glamour and excitement. Expunged slips through my mouth and sits heavy in my chest. A deletion, erased. Something unwanted is removed completely. I don't know why I care except that it's my history too. Feet move in a coordinated dance and fingers weave through, following the ebb and flow of the music. Let the mystery of the mascarade take all participants to a dreamland. What right to you have to move on with your life, pretending like nothing happened? There is not an eraser big enough to delete the damage you caused. I'm still dealing with the fallout. There is no expungement for me. I participated in your mascarade. I straightened your mask. I danced and laughed with abandon. I diverted attention away so you always appeared perfect. I danced your waltz until I couldn't anymore. I wore your mask until it cracked and fell to the ...

I wonder is there a prescription for creativity? I wish I could scoop it from a bucket Or turn a tap and let it flow, running over my hands. Sometimes creativity surprises me.  I look at my work, startled and surprised at the quality. Other times, there is nothing there.  I try to create something and it comes out lifeless.  Music helps turn my mind into a more creative space. Lyrics, melodies, passionate notes combine and lead me along a path. Observations of the world also awake creativity. The rosy sunrise or obscuring fog or crumpled wrapping paper in trash bags. Viewing other's creativity often inspires me. A perfectly formed sentence or a photograph that elicits so many emotions in one image. Sometimes it's watching a dancer contort into unimaginable poses or it's the musician swaying to the beat of the music they are playing as they are being swept away to somewhere else. I have so many stories, thoughts, words that are begging to climb out and I am frustrated at t...

You are the hero. You are the sun-shiny boy who has the world. You are he whom everyone loves as he makes them laugh. You are the boy, the heir, the one that will keep the name. You are the one who makes you feel important enough to speak to you. You are the one who holds all of the right answers and opinions. I am innocent, gullible, easily taken in. I am craving attention--someone to lift my eyes from the floor and show me worth. I am the one who just wants to be loved, seen, acknowledged, desired. I am abused and want to feel normal. I am willing to overlook if you'll say the right words. I am but a mere second in the cannon of your life. You were my hero. You saw me and offered me a place. You were my shining candle when everything went dark. You allowed me to stand on the podium with you as we sneered at everyone else. You took our life, my life, and dismissed it as worthless. You cut me apart and sprinkled every piece, every atom wherever. I was lost, desperate, alone. I sobb...

It was in the fog of bliss that you first kissed me. Expired putting greens and rolling fairways created a hidden oasis. Fog rolled in, invisible, until we looked up and sight was obscured. I laughed and you pulled me in closer and closer. and closer until we kissed. My breath fled and I felt like the fog could lift me, taking me back to their sky. It was in the fog of oblivion that you lastly broke my heart. Uncertainty and anger mixed with a feeling of dreams, nightmares, really. I cried, disbelief leaking out and you made excuse upon excuse upon excuse until I left. My breath fled and I felt like the fog would be my constant companion. It was in the fog of early morning that I was aware of searching for clarity. Scanning the horizon for any change in color. My body aching for light through the darkness through the clouds obscuring my right my left my all around. And then, the fog held specks of glitter. Not constant. Not complete. Just little hints as my headlights flashed. The glit...

She tells me to mind my breath. To focus on the air while my body contorts into impossible positions. To forget the struggle while I concentrate on the in and out. The exhale and inhale. My stomach and chest rising and falling. My lungs filling and emptying. My arms shake and my hips burn. The soles of my feet grasp the mat. It is a struggle to mind my breath but I do it. I calm my doubtful thoughts. "I can do this" I repeat. I use my air to soothe my body and I do it. He tells me to dip and shrug. To use the momentum to fling the weight up. To use the energy created to produce the landing position. Allowing gravity a little crumb before I snatch it away from the fall. My arms tense and my core tightens. My hands grasp the bar. It is a struggle to perfect the movement but I do it. I calm my doubtful thoughts. "I can do this" I repeat. I use my air to soothe my body and I do it. What could I accomplish if I minded my breath and my unconvinced thoughts? What adventure...

The sun blinding me while my mind whirls. Tears in my eyes from the brightness and also because of... life. I get so tired of failing. Of being jealous. of being petty. Of being scared. Of being anxious. I get so tired of worrying and planning and evaluating. Where is unforced laughter? Where is awe at beauty? Where is joy at breath entering my body? Where is satisfaction that my body did what I asked? Where are focus and creativity? I miss the two of us. Staying up late watching "just one more episode." Competitions of skee-ball. Discussing anything while eating chips and salsa. Talking late into the night, chasing away the Sand Man. Falling asleep and waking to the blue screen of a finished DVD. Cooking competitions and devising elaborate future plans. We were good once. Better than good. It was easy. It was fun. It was perfect. We were perfect. You've helped me find my voice. To think deeper. To argue for what I believe in. To have growing confidence. To embrace my cur...

The blank page stares at me expectant waiting. The cursor blinking asking what comes next? And I have no answers. Things are bubbling stewing but are not ready to be introduced. I feel pressure to produce something wonderful exciting poignant. But the curser still blinks at me disappointed discouraged. I understand because I feel the same. Anxious distressed pining for brilliance. Unable to take my thoughts and express them. Unable to form a conclusion. Unable to transfer anything, filling the blank page. So I sit, staring at that cursor willing it to move to speak. But all it does is sit there coyly winking at me. February 17, 2019

I see death everywhere. On the face of the man driving the other car. In the wilted and decaying flowers. In my memories of coffins and tombstones. Like a timer where every moment is represented by a single piece of sand. Sliding along the glass to demise. I see time on the lines etched into my face growing ever more distinct. I feel it as my body revolts to do things it used to without a protest. I know it as I watch the bodies of my children losing their childhood.  Like a hunter who never wearies, insistent on his prey, not satisfied until the kill. Time executes the living. As I grow older, nearer to death, I feel it more vividly. For it is the albatross of the old to know how quickly a life passes. A dead weight that colors all, that is ever present--even in the midst of joy and laughter. Death is always the accompaniment. I wonder if the companionship of death makes living more rich. A reminder to not succumb to misery but instead to grasp every particle o...

During: Fear Uncertainty Worry Naivete Game Anger Controlessness Doubt Cluelessness Fear After: Fear Promiscuity Acting Depression Fear Hysterical Needy Naivete Used Rage Worthless Desperate Controlessness Relenting Hurt Way After: Hurt Healing Regression Counseling Control Realization Support Aching Rage Hope Hope Hope Hope Hope Hope Hope Hope November 11, 2018

My cocoon awaits that place where my breath and being converge. It's crisp here yet the cold doesn't penetrate. All nerve endings are expectant, tingly. My body is heavy and my mind is flying. Thoughts are sluggish to arrive yet defined upon appearance. Emotions are coupled with them and I often have tears slide down my cheeks. It's a momentous effort to wiggle my fingers and toes, when instructed. Like each digit is weighted down with a sand bag. My mind is slow to return from it's expedition. My body is reluctant to leave. While the cocoon is the incubator the butterfly is the creation. I'm not sure the creation is worth anything but it is so satisfying to know it's there. November 4, 2018

I drove by our house today. It was shocking. Notices on the front door and window. Tumbleweeds in the flower beds and along the side. The fence and gates ripped from their moorings. Shutters faded from time. The lawn bush-mowed and irregular. It is the sore spot in the neighborhood. I peered into the windows. The paint color was different, but the countertops and cabinets were still there. The flooring. Still traces of us. It was smaller than I remembered. I know there is some flowery words that should come now. Some way to tie the house to our relationship. The ruins. The abhorrence. The wasting-away. The wishings of a future and yet the reality of what really was. The symbol of your dominance and what it is now to me. All of those things are true, but I also feel sad. It was a good house. Full of time with true friends. Of whispered secrets and desires. Of learning and laughter. Mostly without you. It was a safe-haven for me. I'm sorry to see it dilapidated. I hope it will resurr...

Rain-soaked tattered beaten thin so thin there are holes Rubbish on the sidewalk another piece of trash for others to walk over But I see it. I marvel at it. At the precious bend of it's lip At the rainbow of colors At the delicate pieces connected to the whole The colors do not match with the surroundings Where did it come from? I walk my eyes around the courtyard nothing else is this color Where did you come from? Did you fly free from your stem and land in this oasis? Did a bird grasp you for a present but let you slip? Did the wind tear you from your home and then fade away, leaving you here? I should have picked you up when I had a chance because when I came back, you were gone. Swept away and disposted in the name of clearing the clutter. But to me, you welcomed me. You greeted me. You called out to me. You saw me. And I missed you when you were gone. To me, you were precious. Wherever you are, I hope you know that. September 9, 2018

What are you doing over there in your corner? Face scrunched up, trying to view in a different way. Sipping our of your cup, like me. What are you listening to that makes your head bob and up and down to an inaudible beat? Are you a creator? A painter? A writer? A dramatist? Are you a student who has a major assignment due? Is this your job? Or your outlet? And what about you? What are you thinking about as your forehead creases? You pump syrup and heat up milk, making a sugary concoction, but I see your mind is elsewhere. Where? Are you creating a song? A story? Are you inventing a new drink? And then my gaze finds you--plain looking with just a touch of unique. Your eyes never leaving your laptop, not even to find your cup. The door opens and you never offer a glance.  You are entranced. With what? What holds your attention so completely? May I join you in this cocoon of creativity? May I sit and stew in the advent, the genesis? I sit here with my mind issuing a cacophony of soun...

The rain lands like fireworks on my window shield, then frantically races downward, trying to be the fastest. It pours from awnings, roofs, umbrellas, spouts. The lightening illuminates the shadows and reveals all that is hiding. The thunder booms, insisting on being recognized. I sit, taking in the show. Goosebumps erupt along my body and I turn on the heater...in August. My hair, my clothes, my shoes drip with excessive water. Cellos, violins, timpani play on the radio. And I sit. I turn inward and am mindful of my breath. The first thing a human does...and the last. The life force of all creatures. Lungs expand, then contract. Life flows through me with such a simple act. Wash away all staleness, regret, anger. Cleanse me from entitlement. Just as the rain perfectly accomplishes its' purpose, help me to guard my steps so that in my last breath, I will know my life was not wasted. August 19, 2018

Inhale. Exhale. The air bubbles push their way along my scalp, tickling me as they find their way to the surface. My entire body rises and falls with the flow of my breath. Inhale: the cold air produces goose bumps. Exhale: wrapped in the warm water. Bubbles produce a rainbow sheen that makes the room look brighter. They creep to the corners of my eyes as I shut them tightly to the burn that would occur from the soap contained within. I smell the sweet, sunflowery-mixed-with-apple scent of candles. Inhale. Exhale. My body loosens as the angst of the day floats away. My strained muscles relax. My worried mind releases. In this place, in this bath, in this cocoon of a few square feet, I am allowed to rest. For a few brief moments, I am given time to focus on me. Inhale. Exhale. I point my toes, feeling my calves flex and stretch. I turn my fingers into a fist then open handed. I rest my head on the water and let my thoughts float away. The water surrounds me like a blanket, providing war...

I still remember your birthday. The name of your first love. Your greatest defeat. Your stories of childhood. Your struggle with Hebrew. The way you preached. I remember parts of your vows to me. Your grandfather's hand grabbing my ass. Your sister's elitest comments. Your mother's control. Your manipulation. Were there any good times? Truly good times? Or were they all manufactured...overworked. Like that sickly sweet aftertaste from cheap candy. Was I ever carefree? Was I ever comfortable? I was constantly performing, pleasing, sacrificing. Whatever you want... on the walls, in the decor, in the location, in bed. I was a good wife to you. I was. I was loyal. I was protective. I was accommodating. I loved until there was nothing left. I gave it my all, my everything, until the end. I am still so angry at how you so easily dismissed me. Like driving away to go out to lunch while I ran and screamed your name. Like your annoyance at the vows I lovingly painted above our bed. ...

Faces aglow with candlelight. The tall, thin candles whispering prayers, songs, gratitude, pleas. We follow along in a long line, awaiting our turn. I light my candle and add it to the grouping, knowing my face is dancing with the candlelight. Knowing my candle has joined the choir of voices. And for a breath, it's as it should be. The Lord is near. The soul is content. The questions ease. The peace descends. The people connect. Heaven is here. Then, I blink and it all floats away like a vapor in the air. But my candle is still there, along with all of the others. So I know it actually happened if only for a breath. March 12, 2018

It lies crumpled in the mud, the dirt, a mutiny taking over. The words leak away, finding a home elsewhere. Sorrowful, apologetic pleas were written in earnest. Admittance of wrong doing and neglect. Promises of new behavior and adoration. Words and paragraphs and pages later, the pleading continued. It was soaked in the common, trite, over-used verbiage that one  thinks sounds sincere. But she saw through. Finally, she saw through. He wanted control. He wanted to win. He wanted to manipulate. She saw through. Her body convulsed in the first words as she held pages of pleadings. It was all the same. Nothing was different, except her. As the sun unclothed from the clouds, as the fallen rain glistened, as the birds emerged from hiding, she crumpled up the remnants of their relationship and discarded it in the mud. Littering by some, but liberation for her. February 25, 2018

The air was pink. Tangible. Casting everything in a rosy glow like a gel on a spot light. She could almost taste it. Hints of strawberries, icing, and bubblegum. If she only had more time to dance in it, to swim in it, to feel it. Then, it was gone. Regular air filtered out the pink and all returned to normal. Except for her. Within her, she still touched, breathed, lived. For the air was pink. February 9, 2018

Little bursts of magic Tiny floating rainbows Dancing wishes She twirled amongst them gracefully touching them She wanted to join them fly with them Big ones small ones conjoined one changing-colors ones Her eyes twinkled with the fantasy they illicit And I wanted to "bippity-boppity" her and make all of those wishes come true. January 13, 2018

Tears fill the bathtub as I soak.  Salty relief while my body floats.   Prayers and screams and utterances braided into one as my sight fades away.   Amber light from the candles dance along the ceiling-mocking me.   The drone of the room heater bores into my head, eating away sanity, control, balance. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is there a stronger word?   A word with teeth and anger and just... Mascara and eye shadow sting my eyes. Not a surprise, for my whole body aches.   Like I'm 80.  Like I've lived too long.  Like asking for one more step is too much.   Like I will fall inward and disintegrate into dust. Still tears fall, swirling without abandon in the bathwater.   Fucking Fuck. April 20, 2017