Born Again

Open windows in February allows a westerly whisk to clear the miasma of illness.

For a few moments the temperature difference meets on my skin like an exhilarating first date, replete with goosebumps and dreamy lift. For days I watch gradations of light and dark projecting silhouettes of stick figured dancers along my bedroom ceiling. An occasional splurge of rainbow light floats around like fairies if the sun finds the prisms hanging in the window. For hours I lie on my back and consider vulnerability as birthplace. I learn hard lessons about being born again.

Mom loves us so hard. She is a mama bear and an always-ready-to-help, strong, vibrant woman. The ways in which I am like her have not been a surprise to me until recently. The ego tends to filter out that which is necessary to magnify or exhume. Turns out, we both tend to present our own wounds or needs when someone is expressing theirs. For a moment today on the phone with her, I felt a new sense of compassion and understanding for something and someone who hurt me so many times because I finally recognized her need to connect. Selfishness in the name of connecting is still selfishness. Who loves enough to the tell the truth? Who finds a new way in an old world?

A mangy opossum lumbers atop icy snow just before dark. The dog and I see him at the same time. I wait until he is beyond her reach before I let her outside to give chase. Is that a kindness or a hindrance to my dog? Are all these hindrances we perceive somehow a cosmic kindness?

I think maybe at some point, we all set fire to what we have made; I'm just getting in some good practice.