I hardly recognize myself. Twelve days of clear skies and mental calm seas. Fourteen days since the last time my illness made me jump in the truck and escape to the movies. I get up, go to the Y and come home to my own table with my own chai. A few weeks ago, the thought of living without a coffee shop would have made me weep with grief. Now, it’s nothing. Nothing.
I come home and journal with my own chai, work on my manuscript as easily as I type this. No angst, no sharp hooks of remembered pain when I enter the old journals. Just typing.
I prepare a hearty lunch of sautéed vegetables and pasta. I cook every day. Cook with pleasure. A few weeks ago the idea of cooking filled me with terror. Now, it’s nothing. Nothing.
There’s a bone-deep satisfaction in all I’m doing, how I can choose to stay home, prepare my meals, walk to the Y. I’m saving money. Me. When only a few weeks ago I didn’t know how I would survive to the end of the month. The strangle-hold of poverty let go. In this place of gentle weather, I have enough, and I can make this choice to set money aside for my car fund. A choice. I have a choice.
In the afternoons, I go back to the Y and walk with my iPod. The music pulls the day together—the work, the pleasure, the satisfaction all flow into my feet and my swinging arms. Here I am.
I go home to make a card, blend a fruit smoothie, and sit with Jane Austen. The cats gather. Night grows deeper. We listen to the music singing us, so quiet and calm. And it’s nothing. Nothing.
• • •
Dont’ worry about saving these song!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.
We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.
The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the whole world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.
So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.
This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.
Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!
from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.
Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.