Highs and masks and cycles

I knew it wouldn't last. Couldn't. That marvelous birthday high on which I floated above worry and bickering and never enough sleep and always too much to do. Real life isn't lived on such puffy clouds, above the storms and never in them. Blissful times like those are marvelous reprieves, and I'm sorry to sink back through the rainy gray to the muddy earth waiting to soil my shoes and make a mess of things everywhere.

Here, on terra firma, the pools of stress and tired and busy and unknown lap at my heels and my psyche. I push them away by lunching with friends and making cards for teachers and mothers day, by helping at school and exercising and cooking. And yet, I have lived long enough to know that the best way to get rid of darkness is to turn on a light.

On Monday, a Roman friend talked of various culture shock experiences she's had. In Hong Kong, the constricted personal space in public, in the States the realization that when most people asked, "How are you?" they didn't really want to hear "Well, not so good. My knees hurt, and I'm worried about X." "Fine" or "Good" were the expected and preferred answers.

The mask. The mask we learn to put on to keep things pleasant, for ourselves and others.

Last month, a friend in town from the west coast came for a quick visit before heading back. Buoyant, smiling, she was "fine" until I pushed a bit, truly wanting to know if "fine" sufficiently described things. Not so "fine" as it turns out. The murky waters were lapping at her heels and psyche too. As they often are for so many of us.

In my struggle to understand what anyone sees in Donald Trump as a candidate for PRESIDENT of OUR COUNTRY, I can only figure that in him they see someone who encourages them to unmask and express the feelings and concerns that swirl deep within. While I don't support his candidacy, platform (what little of one he has), personality, hair, or attitude, I understand the allure of someone who seems to cut to the chase and cast aside bullshit. Masks get hot and heavy after a while.

I threw mine to the curb a while ago. Well, it was more a progressive chucking than a single action, but you get my drift. Being done with a masked approach to hard spells doesn't make them less unpleasant, but I am now able to see patterns, better understand causation, and know that brighter times and even cloud-sitting will cycle back around at some point.

Night's blackness a welcome but imperfect muffle

It's dark all around,
night's blackness a welcome
muffle over a busy, boisterous day.
My husband snores, my children slumber.
My world is so still I can hear my heartbeat
tap a sleepy rhythm on my pillow.

I turned the lights off grudingly;
I don't want to stop reading as this time just
for me feels to have only just begun.
But responsibility and tomorrow forced my hand.

And yet, here I am.
In my new AROMO, a space off our bedroom
instead of my sweet little shed out back.
That spot will belong to someone new in two short weeks.
The boys and I cleaned it out with finality on Saturday.
What remains is the mailbox they filled with cicada shells,
their colorful paint jobs on the walls inside.
The window box and sink,
the peg board they never really used.

Time goes by in drags and ephemeral fits.
My new AROMO is perfect, as was my old one.
Tonight's plum tart was as show-stopping as ever;
it is both new and familiar every time.
I can still taste Dalila's tamales, a gift made and brought
up from Mexico to me last week. The rojo and verde sauces,
the banana leaves and corn husks, the perfect masa. Only a
practiced hand can make tamales like that.

I must not forget to buy more plums after drop-off tomorrow.
Must prioritize a work-out before my ladies lunch. 
Hope the rain finally stops, hope the sun finds us again, 
hope all the new red wrigglers in my vermicomposter are
soldiering through this unseasonably cold weather. My
tomato and pepper plants too.

It's dark all around, night's blackness a welcome
but imperfect muffle over today. I should go.

The robin that wanted a shower

Our old yard was a shady place, and I became adept at planting things that didn't need much beyond inconsistent mottled light. In stark contrast, the sun beats down on our new property from morning 'til night. This is an absolute joy in terms of what I can plant and what will thrive, but all those hours of unrelenting rays take their toll on both soil and shoot. 

After many hot hours in the front yard yesterday, I pulled the hose over and set about sprinkling everything down, washing away mulch and dust and giving my plant babies a much-needed drink. I arced my arm right to left, left to right, over and over again, noticing the droplets that hung from leaves and those that sparkled like ephemeral diamonds in the air.

A few birds flew by and landed in the crepe myrtle nearest me. They looked hungrily at the wet plume but kept their distance; all except for one, a sweet little robin with trusting eyes. 

Hop, hop, pause. Arc left, arc right. Hop, hop, nearer. A cock of the head, one eye studying me intently.

"Come here, sweet thing. You must be hot. Come have a cool bath. I won't hurt you." I cooed.

Hop, hop, into the spray. 

Y'all, that sweet bird was blissed out, and so was I. It ruffled its feathers, shook its head, danced about in the refreshing mist. Having now held the hose aloft for a fair amount of time, my arm was quivering, but you couldn't have paid me to lower it or release the sprinkler head trigger.

The robin looked at me again before returning to the crepe myrtle and heading on. I smiled and let the hose drop, ready to start cleaning up so I could head in. 

A few minutes later, a little robin with a trusting eye landed on the sidewalk in the same spot as had the first one and looked at me. I'm sure it was the same, returning for a second dip. And so I fired up my hose, flipped the sprinkler head to shower once more, cooed an invitation, and delighted in his jumping in once more.