I am in the center of very hard things I feel like I fail again and again but the truth is I am still here still finding ways to return to myself every single day so today I will stop and open and be proud of myself in this moment the thirteenth time today that I came back.
These days I don’t always know where to go how to be inside myself all sharp jagged edges I dissolve on the floor of the garage I keen into my pillow I want to put my fist through the wall (how do people do that? the drywall must be very thin?) but now and then I find that sweet spot where I know beyond doubt how lucky I am I find my grateful heart in a quiet moment in the midst of it all and I cry tears that don’t hurt.
I see a black-headed grossbeak on the bird feeder in the morning greet a star (my star?) in the late dusk and in between there is a worn wooden bench in the late afternoon sun away from all the people so I can take my mask off to drink my yerba maté watch the jack rabbit nibbling grass hear the raven’s wingbeats shake my head over how much I continue to resist my life right now and earth thrums through my feet touches my exhaustion and pools in a still quiet place.
I told you this already when I was sixty-two but this year while I’m sixty-three I plan to learn to sing “When I’m Sixty-Four” because I believe I should sing it all year long to everyone who loves me. Late at night I learn the lyrics on my laptop the Beatles’ voices in the quiet living room my impish delight breaking through my exhaustion. I hope every time I sing it I will feel just like this.
Sleepy eyes close again and again Dreams dust my edges nonsense lines dialog with somewhere else What a world I might know if I could lasso it all and bring it forward onto the page dig for messages and buried treasure I hand you a shiny relic with a broken wing and watch you turn it over in your hands in the late afternoon light.
Wednesdays I drive to Trader Joe’s park on the side street tall trees old inviting houses today a woman watering her yard white screen door propped open I sip my hot yerba maté sing snatches of “Our House” Mourning dove mockingbird sit on wires across the way listening I drink my tea breathe cry grateful tears.
This house is filled with crickets I have found them dying more than once Some nights they sing loud in the living room and I stand in the dark and listen to their song When I am working in the black chair I will see one crossing the carpet and send up prayers May you be safe May you be happy My mother stomps near them to scare them away and I worry I will step on one without knowing I find their small belly-up corpses now and then in every room of the house lying in chavasana small enchantments lucky charms loved ones.