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My mom's boyfriend at the time was a journalist. I was maybe 10, and he was fresh to the house. "He's smart," she said, "actually, brilliant!" Her eyes were alight and I could tell she was excited. He had come over to drop something.
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He wore tan patches on the elbows of a corduroy jacket. Wavy hair, looking collegiate. 1980. My mom said to me, "why don't you dance for us?" I was doing ballet back then, even danced "NOLA" in a red tutu at Rogers High School Auditorium.
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So I dance in the dining room where we had lots of empty, slippery floor with a few knife-sized splinters that would occasionally catch sock-footed feet. I whirled faster than usual, moved my hands with fingers into mudras "just so."
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I felt myself spinning off my feet, tipping over, breathing up into my neck: unbalanced. I kept going, faster, leaping, new moves. The bigger steps were only to keep me from falling after the last one almost took me down. "Graceful," he nodded to my mom.
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But I knew I was experiencing something other than grace, "performing" maybe?
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When we're truly graceful, our moves don't knock us. They don't make us gasp for breath, jump further than is needed, or catch ourselves over and over like circus performers.
That dance is a series of recoveries.
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Fast forward to now, at the kitchen sink. I no longer dance for show.
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It's been a shifting time and I didn't know what to do with myself while biding time for the cars to arrive.
I came home early to be here. What to do while I wait? Maybe I'll clean something? Like a good woman of the 1950's might? Spring cleaning is what's missing, I think. Next my forearms feel warm in sudsy rising water, the sun is washing in the window. Maybe I'll wash the walls and woodwork. First time in 20 years.
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Honestly, it's always easier to just paint over.
Then I get whopped by remembrance of people talking grace around me these last few weeks: grace the quality, Grace the name, giving of grace. Asking for grace.
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Who does that? Asks for grace? Why would anyone?
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I decide to try. Can't hurt, I think.
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I say a prayer, two seconds, a question, "What are you, Grace?"
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I find rags and toss them in the bucket.
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The cars are coming with 20-some years worth of classroom, a career in piles. My husband was leaving on terms other than his own. A sad day of rules ruling, boxes checking. No closure, just go. So the cars are driving his memories here. Piles of his work.
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First car to arrive was one of the younger teachers– BP. Out of his trunk comes a table, cloths, chips, cups, beer, calzone... he's setting up a 'pop up' goodbye.
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A bolting burst of tears makes me run inside.
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"We got you," he says when I return.
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The others come with, boxes, bags, books, posters. We fill the shed with bobble heads drums and DVDs. We start a fire.
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And these loving people land in the backyard, with stories of tomatoes, news of families and laughs too. CH whispers to me what to do to pull this out of the fire: step one, step two...
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You'll be fine she says, I've been there.
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More Text & Images
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Here's a little story about non-shop adventures and participating in your local economy even when you aren't flush with currency. It's like flash-mobbing a business you love, but without a mob. 12 Art | Fart Dropping When it came to beautiful goods in the late 1900s3 my mom and would go window shopping more than actual shopping. We'd call our …
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Categories: Family, For My Kids, Mommess, Parenting, Uncategorized
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On the checkerboard of life, the right thing is finding its way to you, as you are to it.~ My Mom Artwork: No Title by the author 2024 I love Johannes Vermeer. I'm not going to write too much about him here, but you need to look into his art on your own, especially the piece The Art of Painting …
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Categories: Creativity, Family, For My Kids, Mommess, Research & Development, Search Research, Spiritual Mechanics, Visual Art, Work
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You received this email because you signed up here, or I thought you might find this interesting and added you to my weekly roundup of text & images. You may unsubscribe at any time at bottom. Your replies, questions and comments are welcome. |
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In the days of AI and excessive optimization, mess is leading edge.
Some content here is political, some personal, much of it philosophical, and all of it meant to shine some light into the lives of my readers, because it was written to shine light into mine.
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I hope my work stirs your soul, ignites your creativity, and helps you feel connected to all the good things this life can offer. If it doesn't, please promptly forget it!
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POLITICAL ACTION AREA It may be best to plug into your local groups, and show up in the ways you can. Peaceful crowd sizes matter, as does your positive energy and adherence to non-violence.
In lieu of knowing the next national day of coming together. I've been hearing how in suburban Boston smaller, weekly, side of road gatherings have tripled in numbers over the last 4 months.
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