The Long Halls of The Morning

I’ve been rising early lately, walking the long halls of the morning, not certain where to put myself. My thoughts are what cause me to pace. Invasive little buggers that hijack me on my way to my pre-dawn pee, unsettling murmurs with spikes and spears, finding the softest places in my heart—piercing the pinky folds where wonder, love, and moonbeams are hidden. I never wear my breastplate to bed—that brassy brassiere that guards my heart—I lay it aside in slumber; after all, a girl needs to rest unencumbered by fear.

These early risings have caused my schedule to shift. What I normally do at 10:am I find myself doing by 8, making my day seem like a long train with endless cars rattling by—leaving me waiting for that bright red caboose to end the sentence and lift the gate. Oh wait a minute. That doesn’t sound inspiring at all. It makes life seem like an endurance test of sorts.

Precisely.

Most days rise and fall with events and thoughts, some self-inflicted, some random— the inner and the outer workings of me coming together to create a life consisting of unanswerable questions, nagging have tos, and yes, bliss. Of course the bliss part of my people pie is relatively small—a sliver of sweet aside a platter of boiled liver and cabbage, and somehow I know this is my fault, but hello! I could barely deal with a 17-hour day and now I have 19 hours. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful; but can I really be trusted to carpe diem when I can barely vacuum the carpet?

I’m certain that these early risings have been sent as loving teachers to guide me on yet another divine adventure of how to live joyfully in the moment without judgments and expectations, and I am grateful for everything, no matter how mushy the texture or bitter the taste, but I hope I learn whatever lesson this is quickly.

It just seems I can never get away with anything. It's like my father's the principal or something. Some people skip through life with clean socks and new sneakers, zippidy-doo-da-ing through their day. Why do I always have to have a lesson on something? Oh wait…that goes into the unanswerable questions pile.

Please Universe… send me some fun tests next time, like proving to you that winning the lottery won’t ruin me. I don't mean to whine but I need my sleep!

Giggles Girls and Ghosts

Writing a blog after more than a month is like coming home after a long trip and wondering if the dogs will still remember me. Of course they always remember me, but there is always that sliver of tension between the opening of the front door and the first wag of a happy tail.

As most of you know, I've been traveling for the past month. Over the years so many miles have passed beneath these brave feet of mine, now cracked from wear and time, yet still carrying me to the end and back…and back again, because it never really is the end now is it?

In the past month I’ve kissed soft cheeks, tickled shy toes, checked in with the tribe—the youngest member, my granddaughter, with her sticky hands and determined spirit, reminded me to chill out–have fun and never EVER give up! I like to think that she got that from me, but it’s her mother’s hard-earned tenacity that has seeded within her cotton candy heart.

Trying on hats

And then there were the many sets of eyes—smiling eyes—happy to see me, pulling up a chair deep within my heart, sitting down with me, taking the time to connect. Loving me. Thank you Lano, Kathy, and Ruth.

I’ve met some new faces too. Friendly Facebook faces reaching out to me with long arms — excellent huggers who smell good—Debra and Megan, who up until that point had been comment makers on FB, but were now in a booth at the Laughing Owl with me, sipping cocktails, slowly revealing their sweet selves—getting to know one another was magic!

My friends are my angels.

Beth was with me all along. She usually is. One-shoe two-shoes, we fit with each other like a comfy pair, and I’m more than grateful for her presence in my life. She carried me south to Savannah—she and Alison, a new friend with a quick British wit and a kind heart. We were giggling girls on a road trip, forgetting the have tos and all the bullshit that chokes out the sun.

We stayed with a friend—a pragmatic woman, not given to any bibbidi bobbidi boo. She apologized about the enraged ghost occupying our bedroom, a farmer from the eighteenth century who refuses to let go. She told us the medium couldn’t budge him, and I wonder if this is his face in the photo, mocking my friend as the shutter snapped. I slept with fingers and toes carefully hidden beneath a blanket of false bravado, insisting that ghosts do not exist— yet jumping at the slightest noise.

And here I am now—home. Tucked back into the nest like a speckled chick cuddling with the twigs and feathers, the familiar scent and the softness—feeling a little larger than before I left, perhaps a bit cramped, evidence of my growth over the summer and perhaps the need for a change in digs—and diet;). But I’ll let life flow in that direction on its own as I occupy this nest and this moment.

It’s good to be home.