I Woke Up Like This

"Girls who run with the wolves aren't here for boys to love."--source

 “Within the Yoni is the origin of the worlds, the Gods and all living beings.” – Vedas

"The Galactic Center is a feminine source of energy – dark, invisible, mysterious. We have to be quiet to receive its messages, and the cosmic wisdom comes through our bodies, our hearts, our dreams, our feelings and intuition – not through our rational minds. According to Christine Page, in her book 2012 and the Galactic Center, to some ancient cultures, the Galactic Center was the womb of the Great Mother, out of which the universe was born." (source)

The day broke cold and white, every branch and blade and leaf encrusted in frost, the earth turned into a galaxy of sharply limned stars. I have worried that Wellbutrin would cut me off from this process, the deeply feminine cycle of hibernation culminating in insight, but today it does not seem so. I am integrating, a woman's work, taking disparate pieces of the being and putting them together to make a whole. An imperfect but complete whole. A bunch of mumbo jumbo, some would say, to which I would give my new refrain, I don't care if you fucking like it. The solstice is a symbol for those of us who are inextricably linked to the seasons, who rise and fall with them, sighing like the sea. When it arrives I will be on a plane bound west across the country, one coast to another, soaring straight into the light. I dreamt of a narwhal and heaving crusts of ice, swaying on a blackened ocean. It's symbolic, she said when she washed three years worth of my hair. It's a new beginning. The filaments of me did not resist the cutting. The frost was on the grain but the day ended in a sherbet sunset, early, carnival colored, promising the things to come. 

In the Moment, Unedited, For What It's Worth

Someday, I am going to

order every book from my amazon wish list
and read them.
Own a vacuum cleaner that works.
Organize four years worth of my daughters' school papers and
nine years of their artwork.
Attend every meeting at the school and then
pull my children out of the public system
teach them about Hindus and Wagner and
how to survive 9 days in the wild.

Someday I will go to every social outing I say I will
Follow through on my offers to volunteer
cutting snowflakes for second graders and
baking snacks for the Girl Scouts and
spending quiet hours repairing brittle old books.
Cook wholesome meals and never get
tired or
lean against the counter rubbing my temples or
retire to the bathroom for twenty minutes while the water boils over
and the children fight
and the windows steam with all the tension
of a busy house
on a December night.

Someday I will paint this old Victrola that I bought
for 45 bucks at a yard sale
that worked at the time but broke
when I moved my children across the country--

--away from their cousins and snow and grandparents
away from white Christmases and smoked oysters and
the shadows of the clouds on the face of Long's Peak.

Someday I will gather
everything that is broken or disorderly or
wounded
and resurrect it.
Learn how to put new paint on old scars
and make the best!

--But this isn't true.
The artwork will mold in the outdoor shed
and the Victrola will sit in the corner
gathering dust, its ribs
remembering the sound
of old music.

And when I am old
if the longings of the Victrola
wake me at night
from a dream of Long's Peak,
I will sigh my heavy body and remind it
it has done what it could.

Sometimes I Write and Sometimes I Just

My sister and I, two years ago. The Nie Nie to my Cjane. Right?

Last night was the Oskar Blues holiday party. It was at an indoor rec center. There was a Christmas tree made of lettuce and shrimp and it smelled just like you'd expect. I drank less than two full beers and that was enough to encourage me to play ping pong and air hockey and even Dance Dance Revolution, but not dodge ball. Two enormous televisions were given away, but neither one to us, so who cares? When we left it was mild like Colorado May. "I can't drive," I told Noah. "I know," he said. "I saw you go for that second beer and stopped drinking."

Today just as I woke up and was deciding whether to cry or puke, I got a text from another OB wife. ("Do any women work at Oskar Blues?" someone asked me once. "One," was my reply). It said, "Ouch". I agreed and laughed and started to cry.

(Noah actively seeks out female applicants for brewing jobs, but so far none have worked out, due to availability and distance. Of course, the tasting room is staffed and managed mostly by women but I'm not sure that helps?)

Today I drove Noah to work under pouring rain from a sunny sky. "Why is it doing this to us?" I moaned, knowing that in Colorado it is frigid and snowy. "Because a long long time ago, someone in Brevard did something very, very bad," he said.

It rains and rains and rains. In 16 days we leave for California. I can't wait to get the hell out of here.