I just keep telling her that I’m crazy about her. That she drives me wild, sets me on fire, coaxes out my water. She brings out my femininity and I let it seep out in all its billowy force and luxury because it is safe. It is finally safe to uncloak my sexuality and reveal its glory. And it is Glory! Glory Glory and Holy Holy! I sit in a circle of tarot cards and flowerbuds, goddess figurines and amethyst, and my perfume is a set of rays beaming from my fingertips.
May the day be perfectly balanced between quiet reflection/rejuvenation and clients who come with their hearts open and leaking. May they find healing and empowerment in this circle. May today be abundant and prosperous. May my ribs be filled with love and my brow with light and my lips with compassion and laughter! May the silky intoxicant of the Claire/Shae dynamic smooth out all my creases and keep me fluid. May today be expansive and delicious and faery-filled! May I dance like bees and revel in the birdshine and sunsong!!!
So mote it be.
When I was a teenager, searching the realm of cinema for identity resonance and connection, I related most emphatically to Winona Ryder’s character in the film “Mermaids.” The stark instability of being parented by a mother who was no more than a child, the inflated responsibility that accompanies that scenario, the unmovable attachment to the boots of her mythical father. Like the work shoes I borrowed from my Uncle John, the uncle with a hole in his throat–back then I didn’t know the word “tracheotomy.” Winona wore those boots and prayed to her saints and wove starry halos around the nuns she encountered and dreamed of joining. Nuns. A fixation. I wanted to be a nun in the ninth grade, when I was super Catholic and jumped rope with rosaries and imagined Jesus was in the incense. I wanted to move all of the second-hand furniture out of my room and live cloistered there with nothing but a mattress, a crucifix and my prayer books. I loved nuns for their dedication, their purity, the unshakable stone of their commitment. I loved them for their proximity to God. In the movie, I liked Winona’s character because whe was dark and intent, because she was unswerving in her devotion and somehow oblivious to the rules of 14-year-old society. She was SERIOUS. I understood SERIOUS. I liked her because of her capacity to dream–because she was somehow bigger than her context–and flawed.
I like you like a best friend giggle twizzle sticks, like sunshine like skipping like hopscotch. Like cuddly fuzzy buckets of bunnies and big wide teeth, no gaps—or maybe one gap just for character. I like you like a late afternoon round of paddleball bouncing off my thigh, off my ear, at bus stops where ghosts gather round and are handed their own from my rainbow-zippered backpack. Every one paddling now. I like you like ferry boat adventures in caterpillar costumes, like BFF and TTFN, like crayons and hand-stitched shoes made from old flaps of shower curtains and painted flags. I like you like I should like tickling, except I don’t because it feels like torture and even the seven-year-old cowgirl inside of me needs to be in control. But you—you are like whistling. Like practice and breathing. Constant like that. I like you like hot air balloons! And hot springs in the winter and giant silvercoin moons like beach balls in the sky. I like you, Dani. I like you a lot.
Good morning, Mama Planet! I’m in love with your birdsong, your breezes, your funny little people. I am grateful for:
1. The Community Nurse line at Harborview 2. Facebook 3. Community 4. Support 5. Coffee! 6. Abundance 7. Good smells 8. Bartering 9. My professional Tarot practice 10. Poetry! 11. My Beautiful Self 12. my friend D-Star, the giggliest queerbo I know 13. Where I live 14. My neighborhood 15. The Shanti Program 16. Mornings 17. Good lip balm 18. Good ink pens 19. My healthy body 20. My bright and shining spirit
I haven’t been writing this week. I am softness. I am fresh air. I am sunglasses, ripped jeans and flipflops. I am chapped lips. I am a rider of the 358. I am lip-slicked resonance. I am cool relaxation. I am shade. I am springy spine. I am eyes like the Caribbean, schools of fish and bracelets of seaweed. I am a kelp dancer, a cartomancer, which means reader of the cards. I am deep-sinking footsteps. I am a smeller of roses. Each and every one. You may see me on your street, all closed-eyes delight and bent over your roses. I am that One. A one without hustle.
Wonder-struck, sandwich in hand, I found myself rooted to the sidewalk on 5th Avenue and Olive. In the pink sky heralding nightfall, a circus troupe of smallish birds wove ribbons among the LegoLand blocks of concrete and glass. As if of one mind, they gracefully looped into two separate swirling spheres, circling each other, before pulling back into one elongated mass, a flowing ellipsis of feathers. They performed this routine in near silence, uninterrupted by my rapt attention or the flashing lights and whistling brakes of downtown traffic. It was one bird, one moment, one single existence. I watched for an hour, little crunched-up bits of peanut butter clinging to the roof of my mouth, until the darkness finally swallowed the birds.
Your children are whole. They are not in pieces. They are the brilliance-flecked ocean teeming with life. They are strong like bone and absorbent. Your children manufacture glue from the splinters of tearducts all swolled up with the heaviness and breathiness of living. They are panting, they are zigzagged, they are substantial as stones, their chins slicked with the juices of life. Your children know the intimate pulpmeat of the heart and proudly glisten upon a swiftly tilting planet. Your children love you. Be the trampoline for their rocketing and the cupped palms for their returning.
I am moved by a vast expanse of tenderness when I watch people, when I
them. Seeing our frailty, our basic goodness, our potential for sweetness. I saw a little boy yesterday, his head buried in his arms, leaning over the low wall in front of a school. He was weeping loudly, unselfconsciously. But as soon as I articulated the thought to myself, he swiftly and matter-of-factly ran his palms across his eyes and down his cheeks, marching away. Filters kick in. Or the fullness of emotion is spent.
What if we all wept openly and brazenly? Laughed loudly and without restraint? Skipped with exuberance and breathless wonder? Bellowed at the sky with rage and made scrunched-up faces so tight our cheeks burned? Pretended we were great big jungle monsters pretending to be human? Pretending to be human children?