Because My Horoscope Said If I Got Into a Funk I Should Turn It Into Art

Sitting at the burnt-out end of a smoky bar, I
scribble a metaphor on a damp napkin,
gaze through my dirty glass at the
guy cheating
on his wife and the
girl cheating
on her crossword and I wonder:
who will this ever inspire?

On the Anniversary of My Birth

Nothing I might have posted about this event could begin to rival the text I got from my mother this morning. Here she is, unabridged and only slightly edited, guest blogger for a day:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to my first-born baby. The one I dreamed about all through high school, writing her name over and over before I knew what her last name would be.

The only one whose bassinet I ever stood over and said, "Come on, wake up, my baby girl."

The only one whose clothes I set out each Saturday night so I could show you off on Sunday morning at church. And who everyone loved and cherished and wanted to hold. You were the church's little star.

I love you so much. And you have turned into a brilliant woman of strength and accomplishment. Who ever would have known as I wrote "Angela Dawn" fifty times in rows in high school?

I wish I had more to give to show my love, but this year I only have words that I hope will make you feel priceless.

I love you, my little strawberry blonde baby girl. I wish we could spend the day together in celebration. But we will have to hug each other across the miles and walk hand-in-hand in our minds.

Happy birthday. I love you . . . from the only mother you'll ever have.

Your little mom

If I Wrote Tasting Notes

Pinot grigio would do cartwheels on your tongue and jumping jacks in your cheeks.

Chardonnay would swim a river of honey across your palate and swan-dive down the back of your throat.

Cabernet would make you sit up straight and surrender all at once.

Shiraz would become blackberries dripping chocolate on your tongue.

And exotic blends would cause your eyes to smile like a kid at a campfire.

I Should Be Glad of Another Birth

I was born
bald and quiet and born-again.
I drank the koolaid and colostrum on the first day
and was instructed that it was good.
My pale light shone through the vomit in my crib:
Tuesday's child
full of grace and
fear
Atlas, my skinny teenage mother.

My girl was born
with strawberry hair
quiet and white and wise as snow.
She came easy
and
her light cast shadows while she slept:
Thursday's child
with far to go
Why she picked me I'll never know.

Yoga Because

Because I have moved in wonder down a quiet path “less traveled by” in this hi-fi western world.

Because I have felt the connection with those who’ve gone before and felt unworthy to inhale their subtle air and to wipe their dust from my bare feet.

Because I have stood in vrkshasana and felt myself take root: felt each tube and tendril embrace new earth.

Because I have assumed the stance of a warrior and felt as if an entire army could spring from one hair of my head.

Because I have opened my heart wide to the sky and felt the liberation that comes from practicing a discipline without dogma.

Because one singular summer night, it quietly cast its line into churning, murky waters, and now I'm hooked.

Creases, Loops, and Curves

Once upon a time, a diminutive, freckle-faced eight-year-old girl with straw-colored hair sat down in a gray-white lunchroom and opened a Pippy Longstocking lunchbox.

Peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. Thermos of cold milk. Orange slices. And something else: a creased paper napkin that unfolded to reveal five words written in glorious loops and feminine curves.

"Give love to get love."

The slamming shut of the napkin and the rush of red to the freckled cheeks likely went unnoticed in the cacophony of the cafeteria. But the embarrassment the five words elicited--and the anger at the audacity of their author, my mother--still ring loudly above the murmurs of other childhood memories.

Despite my protests, each day another crease unfolded to reveal another aphorism.

"Remember who you are."

"Jesus loves you and so do I."

"You have the choice of your reaction."

They didn't relent until I retired Pippy Longstocking.

Fast-forward 30 years. A diminutive woman with straw-colored hair and faded freckles sits in a gray-white cubicle. Above the cacophony of fluorescent lights and office politics, a smart-phone illuminates.

"Have a good day and don't let anyone push you around. Now go do the right thing."

The loops and curves are implied. My mother is still writing notes on my napkin.

The Violet Hour

Ever since T.S. Eliot talked about the violet hour (line 225), I've watched for it. Wanted to be in it. Live it.

I've lived lots of twilight: muted mood-ring opals, midnight indigos, melting golds. This morning a wave broke over a horizon the color of the Pacific, and mango emerged underneath. The tree buds were big enough to silhouette against the sunrise, and I took a picture with my baby browns so I wouldn't forget. The air was cool.

Still, I reminded myself, it wasn't the violet hour.

(big sigh)

I guess the twilight is always violet-er on the other side of the fence. I should be thankful for my Pacific mango sunrise.

One Sky

Four-year-old blue eyes look up into the night and smile, "Mama, look . . . a skinny moon. It looks like a banana . . . or a toenail . . . or even the first letter of my name."

Her brother's six-year-old glass-green eyes scan the same sky and observe, "Sissy, it's called a quarter moon. You just can't see all the round part because it's in the shadow of the earth."

One artist. One scientist. Two visions. One sky.

Change your vision, and you change the world.

Ragged Journals

20 years ago we wrote down black stuff on white pages in ragged journals that we shoved under the couch when anyone came around. We were protective. We feigned offense at the audacity of any eyes that assumed those pages were fit for their consumption.

(Parenthetically speaking: The eyes were hungry and we should have fed them. We thought it was black and white. Now we know the whole thing's gray. And we weren't offended. We were panicked.)

Now we broadcast virtual pages for the consumption of eyes known and unknown. We make no assumptions. Feign no offense. We actually, I think, hope for the best. This is progress.

By the way, my ragged journals are still shoved under the couch. They're still none of your business.

I Run.

I run on red clay weight-bearing roads rutted by green tractors and farm trucks. The tracks of my trail shoes fall in with the others: deer, raccoons, coyotes. They're after something and so am I. We all run for a reason.