There comes a point whereby gray must do and be and elicit something else. A black squirrel dances along the fingertips of the privacy fence, pausing here and there in an apparent stare. The rain has ended and sub-freezing temperatures have returned. There is no comfort in the sky or on the ground or around the bare trees that only click and clack together in the gnawing wind. Before everyone wakes I can still trick muddy ears into hearing the sea. No birds today. No sounds but the ticking wall clock, the rise and fall of the furnace and the occasional whimper of a dreaming dog. No sea. No sun. Am I made to come apart?
Let me start again . . .
Books and shelter and food. Family, dog, music. Health. A fire smoldering in the hearth of hearts. It's okay. I'm okay. I know love and love knows me. In this version I cull my blessings and wring them for every last drop. It's sunny somewhere. Meditate. Contemplate less. Fold the monastery linens and put them neatly away. Exercise. Drink green smoothies. Disconnect. Walk. Read; I am dead in the water without reading.
For literally seconds, the famished gray hood thins enough for sunlight to pierce and pulse through empty branches. It bobsleds down white, pristine roofs to finally tinge the valleys of my laugh lines. Tears brim before the light is gone. Here's the thing I'm trying to say: Michigan is stunning in all of its wild iterations and yet, its dark cloak is just too heavy for me to bear. My home it too heavy.
White chicken chili bubbles on the stove given by my sister when I moved back to the United States.
The “happy lamp” is stationed on the round oak table that used to be my childhood epicenter while growing up on Gun Lake.
My brother called – my niece is done with the Jenny Lind bed that I slept on for 18 years and he'd like me to come pick it up.
That is only half of the equation that binds my feet to this pine scented, freshwater, yin yang of place. The “how” of enduring is some kind of oasis shimmering in the untouchable distance.
For now, another dawn. I make my bed and cook for those who need me and try to stop fleeing from the writing that writes me.