Sunday, April 26, 2015

A Honeysuckle Morning.


I walk into the kitchen, barefoot.
My feet collect dirt and dust, but I don’t mind.
I am happy.

The smell of honeysuckles fills the house, visiting each room in oceanic waves, parading the house like the Guest of Honor.
The window is wide open and the morning breeze is crisp, clear.
I feel safe.

A look over the shoulder and a warm smile.
A look that says, I know you.
Being known is not as scary as it seems, sometimes.

I sit at the counter and let my elbows lean in to this sacred space.
These early hours are quiet and so are my thoughts.
I feel like I am the only one awake in the whole world, besides her.

Her muscle memory comes into play, body informing the mind.
Shuffle left, pick up plates.
Shuffle right, open the oven.

Watching this dance every morning in the kitchen gives me hope for the simple.

I think of these beginnings, these fresh starts to my day, and I think of the color white.
White counter tops.
White floors with dirt tracking in from outside.
White teeth from her welcoming smile.
White refrigerator door, opening and closing with grace.

When the first word is spoken, it is like a heavy rock slamming into the calm riverbed, fish scurrying about in every direction.
Nothing but pure interruption to my calm state of mind.
It was bound to happen some time, I guess.

The white colors become tainted with brown- things get messy every once in a while.
Words spoken into blank spaces and the day officially begins.

There would always be the next quiet morning to look forward to, the next steady riverbed with fish swimming at strategic angles and deer standing nearby, overlooking the scene with the elegance of a mother checking in on her children hours after bedtime. Trees swaying, birds silently gliding over the water’s edge.

Everything stands frozen in time and no one is waiting on anything, no person or event demanding attention.

White space.
Elbows in.
Smell of honey.
The kiss of the morning breeze.

Silent.
Motionless.
Free.



Wednesday, April 8, 2015

The Curl


My fingers curl in wild abandon, my knuckles arched like the spine of a cat.

There is something so gentle and honest about the curling of our fingers. It reminds me of a newborn baby- her tiny, silky fingers curling around just one of our own. Her fingers touch the skin of the future. Our fingers touch the skin of the past, and together, we meet in the present moment. Together, we create connection, warmth, understanding.

The curling of our fingers reminds me of holding hands with someone you love, your fingers intertwined and spaced out so strategically with theirs. The tip of each finger meets each space between each knuckle, and you are perfectly and effortlessly centered.

And then there are the moments in life when I do the curling all on my own...

I curl my fingers around my big toe to hold myself up on one leg during yoga. I need to feel balanced, so I curl.

I curl my fingers around my steering wheel when the rain falls like rocks from a sky of deep, dark gray. Its uncontrollable, undeniable force roars against my window and I need to feel stable, so I curl.

I curl my fingers against my lips when I am thinking about next steps in life or next steps in my day. I need to feel purpose, so I curl.

I curl my fingers when I play the ukulele or the piano, playing with sounds and words, forming a puzzle with tiny bits and peculiar pieces. I need to release, so I curl.

I curl my fingers when I cry, trying to erase this far-too-public display of emotion. I need to feel normal so I curl.

I curl my fingers around my phone as I reconnect with an old friend, my breath slowing down as I listen intently. I need to feel human, so I curl.

I curl my fingers around the front of my bike, the wind kissing my face and lightening my load. I need to feel alive, so I curl.

We curl to forget.
We curl to remember.
We curl to connect.
We curl to disappear.

Whatever the reason, we curve, we fold, we bend.
We... curl.