Beginning a post at 3:15 in the morning is so crazy that it just might work. The captor is surely napping. How do I know? I feel open to using prepositions. That's how.
Let's do a grab bag as I don't have long before sleep comes for me. First, let's look in the bag, and then we'll pull things out.
Overhead bag view:
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**Raja yoga*dining room table*Finn haircut********
**election*house putting together*baby wondering**
**not writing*relaxing about not writing************
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Okay. Grab.
Finn's haircut: Jim Morrison has left the building, replaced by the president of the Young Democrats of Lake City. My son looks less dissolute (you know, for a two-year-old), more inquisitive. He looks older, taller and brighter. He's taking SHAPE on us.
Grab.
Dining room table: We have one now. It's wonderful. The soul of the house can now descend into place. A line runs through the great room from the fireplace through the dining table to the kitchen. Hearth, home, welcome, nourishment. I hope that many of you will come and sit at our dining room table with us and fulfill my dreams for this house. Photo to follow.
Grab.
Raja yoga: This is a twelve-week course I'm taking, heading into its fifth week. A Raja/Hatha yoga intenstive. Raja yoga. What be? (Uh-oh. Captor waking?) (The captor is waking, but I will fight to use the English language as it was meant to be used. I'm on to me. Whenever I want to tell you about something beautiful and difficult to describe, I want to revert to cave talk. I constantly feel too shy to attempt to describe things properly.) Oh, listen. Instead of trying to tell you what Raja yoga is, I'll give you a link to the class description. There. Now I can tell you what I really want to tell you, which is how the class feels.
Like home. Like the sun coming up. Like weightlessness. Like my mouth curling inadvertently into a smile like a small boat which is gently pushed off shore. The lake is infinitely wide, the destination is far away. The boat drifts slowly, the current is soft but sure. There is no hurry, not the slightest bit. It's early morning on the longest, best day of my life. By nightfall I will be at my destination. The day can be as long as it needs to be, but this is the day. I have finally left tomorrow back on shore. The boat can get tangled up in seaweed, and I can slowly disentangle it. No panic. I can drift in circles for a while, stop and float. I can eat some of my picnic. Muffins under the noonday sun. I can row until my arms are tired and I want to cry, and I can stop to cry. Very fine. All right. My face will dry, my nose will clear, equilibrium will return. I will keep rowing, and drifting, and rowing some more. Today is the day, however dull, however thrilling, however sweet or painful. Today can last a thousand years but this will still be the day.
So, it's a good class.
Grab.
Baby wondering: Sleep wants to come and rescue me from talking about this one. Cave talk also wants to kick in. Defense mechanisms. And also it's almost 4am. Let me pose this one as a question.
Is there a baby remaining out there in the ether that belongs to us? If so, please report not only to my womb, but please report to my heart and mind and launch a campaign to win them over again. My next birthday is my fortieth. This feels like a wall or a locked door. Will someone slip in before we are up against it?
Grab - wait. Guess what? I am not pulling everything out of the bag. No more writing about writing or not writing, for one thing, is my new motto. The dining room table is sufficient talk of the house. And as far as the election goes, IT IS NOVEMBER FIFTH AND OBAMA WON.
Good night and good morning.
Like home. Like the sun coming up. Like weightlessness. Like my mouth curling inadvertently into a smile like a small boat which is gently pushed off shore. The lake is infinitely wide, the destination is far away. The boat drifts slowly, the current is soft but sure. There is no hurry, not the slightest bit. It's early morning on the longest, best day of my life. By nightfall I will be at my destination. The day can be as long as it needs to be, but this is the day. I have finally left tomorrow back on shore. The boat can get tangled up in seaweed, and I can slowly disentangle it. No panic. I can drift in circles for a while, stop and float. I can eat some of my picnic. Muffins under the noonday sun. I can row until my arms are tired and I want to cry, and I can stop to cry. Very fine. All right. My face will dry, my nose will clear, equilibrium will return. I will keep rowing, and drifting, and rowing some more. Today is the day, however dull, however thrilling, however sweet or painful. Today can last a thousand years but this will still be the day.
So, it's a good class.
Grab.
Baby wondering: Sleep wants to come and rescue me from talking about this one. Cave talk also wants to kick in. Defense mechanisms. And also it's almost 4am. Let me pose this one as a question.
Is there a baby remaining out there in the ether that belongs to us? If so, please report not only to my womb, but please report to my heart and mind and launch a campaign to win them over again. My next birthday is my fortieth. This feels like a wall or a locked door. Will someone slip in before we are up against it?
Grab - wait. Guess what? I am not pulling everything out of the bag. No more writing about writing or not writing, for one thing, is my new motto. The dining room table is sufficient talk of the house. And as far as the election goes, IT IS NOVEMBER FIFTH AND OBAMA WON.
Good night and good morning.
2 comments:
great post! thanks for making the effort. i LOVE finn's haircut! he looks such the little man. love it. more over e-mail. love, hil.
He does look older with his haircut!
P.S. In case I never get around to getting that book to you - here's a link. (I am notorious for forgetting things)
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