You're My First Love

Monday I sat incredibly still for the first time in two years.

Added the last line breaks, capitalized the D in dad I forgot to, took out a few commas, and saved my 54 page manuscript-thesis as a complete and finished document.

Yesterday I packaged up two of these little babies and sent one to Mark Wunderlich and another to Ed Ochester. And as soon as I stepped outside the post office, I felt differently than what I anticipated. Empty. I felt empty. And maybe 'empty' isn't necessarily the *right* word; but I didn't feel great or light or unburdened.

I found a baby bird, almost dead. I brought the tiny thing back to life with care, intention, and food, lots and lots of love, mornings of conversation and even my own breath, sometimes. And, as time went on, that thing got gorgeous. She preened and perched everywhere; she fluttered throughout the house and slept quietly on my pillow. I loved her, you know? And when I sent her into the sky (when it was time); she didn't even turn around to watch me wave.

That's how I felt. Is that the same as empty?

You Sat Alone

Don't let the sun even lay claim on that skin of yours. My hands have sprawled over the expanse of your back, and she can't begin to know what that means. I can't begin to know what that means.

I won't try.

But now, it isn't summer anymore. And everything is changing.

What Sunshine Do You Bring?

I'm writing this for you. Not actually, because knowing would be something completely different. But I think I'm writing this for you. You eat the day, tenderly, with just a tad bit of salt. And the way you brush your hair? I love it. That's why I'm writing this for you. Also, you walk like pop rocks, and I dig that. You talk to me, sunset colors in your voice. Oh, and the hushed sound of wings ripping through air.

Don't be confused. This isn't a love poem. I don't write those.

I just wanted you to know, that a few times a day, I write for you. In a way that's not actually writing, but in a way where I notice things (because that's what I do, I notice things) and think, I want to write that. I want to write that for you - always.

Here's what I want to say: mortal sins are sins but so are venial sins, but not in the same way.

Love is like that, too.

Love is like that, too. (but this isn't a love poem). It just isn't.

It's been coming for sometime

Today I had a half day. My weeks will boast a few of those now -and anyway, today was one of them. As I was walking back to my car from the chinese restaurant, food in hand, I saw a friend who I used to work with at the library. It was nice, seeing her face in the sunshine and not under fluorescent bulbs - we hugged very near a busy intersection - we didn't care, really. It was warm to see her pretty face. And, here's the (second) best part of this story...

She said I looked good. Or happy. Or both. She couldn't decide which to land on.

And there you have it.

There are different reasons for it; I know it's not *just* job stuff, but let's not kid ourselves. Right? And yes, it's very early yet for both jobs. But I'm free. The moment I quit the library, something was let loose - something supernatural. I don't have to do things that make me unhappy. I don't have to make my decisions based on other people. I get to decide. I don't have to feel guilty.

I haven't let myself be. Just be. You know?

Other big reasons I'm happy? Well, I have bikes. And buds to ride with. And badminton. And summer.

And wine. Yes. I have these things.

I'll Keep This World From Dragging Me Down

I keep making deals with myself.

"Pay this bill then clean the house, ok? Run to the library then clean the house. Listen: if you clean 2 rooms, you can watch a Star Gate. Write a blog post THEN clean the house. Clean the house then you can go on a bike ride. Clean a few rooms and read your library books. Start at 12n. Well, just start and be done by 3. Do this and get FroYo later." And so on.

Listen, I know I'm lazy. Also, irresponsible. And, while I'm at it, I'm messy.

But, I'm happy right now, so it's hard to wash the dishes and scrub the toilet when I just want to marinate in this feeling. It's familiar. It's waking up at my nena's house. It's excitedly anticipating. It's *just* buying Season 5 of The X-Files. It's Architecture In Helsinki with the windows down. It's right after my first rock and roll show. It's seeing a Common Loon dive for the first time. And so on. And so on.

So, I'll start cleaning the house after I have a tiny dance party in honor of how things are going. Okay? Deal?

Deal.

I don't care: I love it

I had a revelation today. Basically, it goes like this: if I'm unhappy - it's on to the next one. I bet you want a little back story, huh?

Yesterday, I was offered another job. Like, she called me. She said, "The whole office voted," she said. She said, "We all want you." Well, anyway, this is troubling because I just accepted a position at that little, local winery right west on 24. The problem is: I want both. And I want school. And I want time to be a real life person. And I want to be able to eat this summer. But I also want to play backyard games and get stupid sweaty and really drunk with a shuttlecock in my hand, at least 2x a week, you know? Is that too much to ask? (probably.)

And let's face it, what a great problem to have. I totally recognize this, and please, don't hate me for stewing... but no worries, because me? Well..

I've made up my mind and it goes something like this: I can do whatever I want. And I damn well intend to.

like the pine trees lining the winding road

There are serene moments in life that don't make sense. Laying flat on my back watching the stars fall right the fuck out of the sky, like love, while the cicadas sing until their membranes are raw with vulnerability.

Covered in soot, the fireman telling me that my dad's ate up corpse was found near the kitchen door, leading to the mudroom. Calmness like fog, calmness like fucking fog.

Once, I stood on the lip of a canyon and brought iron into my lungs.

Things, some things anyhow, make my skull break apart, make my blood a mudslide.

only, I don't know how

I happen to be okay by myself. Which is shocking and unexpected news from someone who rates as a 99% extrovert on all the personality tests. (Let's be honest, I've only taken the Myers-Briggs: ENFJ, gentlemen.) But I'm okay alone. Let me clarify, though, to allow no room for error. I'm okay alone for a small amount of time. And by alone, I mean, surrounded by people. Because here I am on a Friday night, the husband is out of town and I tote my laptop to my favorite pizza place, order wine and listen to the hum of happy families eating. It's still alone, right? Just *not* alone. It's a seriously complicated paradox, but me? I'm okay with it.

It wasn't always so, as it is with every love story. In college I was not okay. The middle of my sophomore year I was a funeral march. Everything was devastating - I stayed in bed for hours and days and hours in a day and months more like, it was foreign to me. The soles of my feet were heavy with pain - why would I want to walk?

And here's the turn around: one night, locked in a study room in the upstairs of the library trying my little heart out to type a Philosophy paper, I called my Nena and cried and cried and cried about everything. I just kept sobbing "I'm so sad" over and over again. She waited until I took a breath (a gasp, a "MAN OVERBOARD" kind of thing) and she said calmly and seriously and full of the softness of a goddamned rose, she said: "pack your bags. I'm coming tonight."

That's the woman who helped build me.

That's the woman who had a major health scare this week - everything is fine, now. But Tuesday I was convinced that every breath I took, every red light I saw on my frantic drive down to her house was going to be forever stayed in my heart as a fucking curse.
Did I mention she's fine now?

She is. And I'm not sure I've ever been so thankful. Because here is the truth: my life is nothing without her joy. Because sharing a bottle of Merlot with her on the north porch in my hometown beats everything. Everything. She is mine and there is no simple way to say it. With her living, I live.

I know you understand.

see no future, pay no rent

I'm not kidding when I talk about religious experiences in my car. I have them a lot. Once I was listening to Africa by Toto. I don't understand, and honestly, I will never try - but one rainy day I was on my home from Huntington, listening to the radio. I ended up singing about as loudly as a human can and crying my eyes out. It remains enigmatic.

I write - or not really WRITE, but mostly come up with most of my ideas behind the wheel. I do. I just can't stop it. I jot down crazy and messy words that will trigger a memory or a thought I serenely had alone on 600 N. Or I'll text a short note in my phone on I-69 that punches me with poignant emotion...for example:

"Harvest-dust smells sweet, settling in my lungs under a sky I won't ruin with words" or

"Sometimes the tree bark in my blood gives me a rest. And I think the earth is turning like it should."

And let's face the reality, Toto and writing blows any other kind of religion I've tried out of the water.

So, lets not forget about what happened yesterday. The clouds were sickeningly insane. I can't begin to comprehend the overwhelming sense of warmth coursing through my blood. I was driving into the best mixture of moisture, light, dark and earth science. I needed to pull over and dip my hands in mud near a cemetery. Or offer some sort of gift to the universe that might make it think about gracing me with these skies everyday. Or lay flat in the fields near homes nestled comfortably in a county kind of forgotten.

I didn't do these things. Instead, I took pictures.

And I thought, I'll blog about this. I, also, thought that my car just might be the only real sanctuary for a gal like me.