Where Do We Live

I'm weird about my love for soup.

The love of elephants is different from the love of Chopin's mastery of the minor key which is different from the love of soup.

I let my nails grow longer, which is the same kind of anomaly as a dragon's cave or a small child's ability to compose concertos. I am surprised by the shift in attention caused by stilettos at the end of my fingers. Talking hands can say sexy things. The integration of body and mind is a tangible thing, but it is also confounding.

We talk and swim with the ease of a river but we can't live there. We must eventually climb onto the banks to dry in the heat of day or lay down full beneath a toss of stars to let night do all the talking. Turtles cling to logs and tuck themselves into soft, silty envelopes, opting for a hiatus from deep dives from time to time. Where do we live?

What is the human experience freely chosen and freely lived? I do not yet know this but the Matriarch will not let me sleep all night long until I understand both what I want and what I am missing.

I quietly read and write as he sleeps on the couch, despite January's blustery tantrum whistling just outside the wall of windows. Adrienne Rich tells me that no woman is free until all women are free. No matter how much further there is to go, it begins with me. I've not used my privilege to better understand the history of the Feminine Rising.

A silence drips and crystallizes in the sub-freezing air. Before warmer days can wrap themselves around these daggers, the hammer of interpretation will shatter these words and let them fall unto the white sea. Make this life count, for all of us.

And please pass the soup.