August 25th, 2025
Some days, the house is a mess, the gardens are a mess, I am a mess.
It ain’t pretty around here.
Maya is back at school in North Carolina, opening big, heavy doors to wisdom. Lucia is camping off the edge of a Colorado mountain lake. Jack is sitting quietly on a surfboard, watching the sun rise over sleeping San Diego. Scott just left with an egg McMuffin in his belly and a hot cup of decaf in his hand. He paused to thank me for breakfast and give me an extra-long hug before heading in to work.
I notice a bad smell coming from the basement. I kick the door closed hard with my heel. Walter is waiting for a walk. The scale is up. The coffee is too bitter
When I’m not sure what room to tackle first, what feeling to feel first, I just go out and lie down in the clover grass on a big white sheet and place my belly down, kick my feet mad for a bit, press my busy head to the ground, let my heart feel the unfairness of whatever.
While I drum my sore fingers on the great mother’s big belly, she reminds me that she conjures mean storms. Shakes and quakes her body to open and swallow pavements and perfect lawns. She spits volcanoes, and rounds up waves that crash shells and heads and spines into sand. She lets it burn. So many of us have left her. After all she has given
“Take this mess,” I say. “Help me make order of it. Swallow me up, take me back.”
The birds sing, and the late summer cicadas play their fiddle wings. There is still warm sun coming off the earth for a while. Like a bowl that has been in the microwave too long.
I decide to flip the laundry, put on music, load the dishwasher, and water the vegetable garden.
I move into table, then downdog, then a good forward fold to get up. It is a start.
Sent from my iPhone
