Unedited Sunday Morning Musings

 

today

when i was walking

sand slipping between my toes

heels sinking

and lifting

legs moving me forward

people lined up in pews

eyes closed

hands clasped

throats thick with hymn

and they prayed

 

while they sat

surfers AND dolphins

sunday morning redondo beach

in the white and blue

steepled building

down the street from my house

i watched

neoprene clad surfers

wait on waves

i watched

dolphins flip

through the gleam

of sun

a flicker-dance

on the water

i watched pelicans

and gulls dive

for their breakfast

 

i know it might be corny

to make such a simple

comparison

my church

to theirs

 

sometimes truth

is just that simple

 

and the sky glows orange

morning meditationthis morning
during my meditation
focusing on my centering thought
          Through rest and play, I open my creative channel
focusing on my Sanskrit mantra

Om Anandham Nama
My actions are blissfully free from attachment to outcome

focusing on my breath
focusing
letting the thoughts float in and out
not serving them tea
focusing on relaxing
ignoring what she said
focusing on my breath
ignoring what I said
focusing too much
ignoring each click tick tick of my brain
tick
should I be working this hard
focusing?
my actions aren’t always blissfully free from attachment to outcome
I’m plugged in
to the outcome
I’m plugged in
to how I’m getting me there
I’m plugged in
unconscious even
someone or something or both
have more of me then I’m willing to give

I need that back
that piece of me
I’ve given away to
her
them
the giggle
gaggle
of women men groups others
that piece I’ve given away
I’d like that back please

thank you

cloud flyIt’s time to
peel myself away

I open the door
The smell of cut grass and wet earth
washes over me
I bend
into myself
I flip outside
upside-down
into the day

I grab a tree branch
trapeze myself
somersault
up
to land
cordless on the lift of cloud

I look down

No line
No note
No tone
No chord

Just my song

Bye-bye
I sing
Bye-bye
Bye-bye

Sweet crazy swirling
velvet sky stretch me humble and whole

happy cartwheel slices
I am unrestrained, unbowdlerizedand the sky glows orange
gritty open soft
pulling sweet
coursing through my own arteries capillaries veins
streams of me
flowering creative flushing flows of me
whistling energy surging gushes of me
painting the sky
purple red blue pink green

Below
I catch
in the corner of my eye
a frayed line spark

and the sky glows
orange

Expansion & Contraction

I look out of my office and see the grooves in the floor. I want to lie down. Allow the tops of my feet, thighs, stomach, breasts, my palms, my left cheek, my ear to rest on the boards that have been here since 1951. There is story to share.

Flooring needs to acclimate to its environment. It’s called acclimation. It prevents excessive expansion or contraction.
Expansion and contraction.knotted history
Expansion and contraction.
Wood floors expand and contract.
They need space to allow for movement.
They are alive.

I’ve stripped through many layers of polish and shine to come to the original tongue and groove wood panels that are at my foundation. I prefer a natural finish. I want my imperfections to shine as the sunlight streams in through the windows. A nick here, a scar there, knotted flaws. Blemishes contain story.

I can find story anywhere if I choose to see. Choose to pay attention. Choose to feel. Acclimate to the energy that has been left behind. A fingerprint left on a glass coffee table, the red lipstick that stains a favorite tea cup, the faint scent of Tide tumbling in the air as the drier runs. I can be still to feel the pitter-patter of children that grew up on these floors, feel their bumps and bruises, knees, shins, hearts scraped, scarred, broken and healed.

When we first moved into the house I felt the history. I wondered if one day I’d greet Bill in a bouffant do and white ruffled apron over a yellow fitted blouse and full skirt. The smell of his dinner warming in the O’Keefe and Merritt oven, some sort of a casserole baking with broccoli, tuna and Campbell’s cream-of-something soup. I’d greet him with a chilled Martini, three olives, little vermouth, ruby lips pursed, “How was your day honey?”

I’ve never made a casserole, but I do greet him with a kiss, smile and the question.

As I look out from my office, I see us grooved into the boards. We have, after nine years in our home, added to its history.

We’ve acclimated to the house. Like the wood floors did when they first settled in 1951, we settled ourselves in here, happy, in 2004. One day another couple will settle in after we’ve left. They’ll swirl themselves into our spirits and the spirits of those that have come before.

We are pieces of wood. We expand and contract.  We are boards in a floor, placed together, tongue and groove, to create a patchwork foundation.  We are story.

Rose Colored Day

 

Rose Colored DayA pink light glowed inside my bedroom
when I woke up this morning.
I looked outside the window and saw
pastel sunrise streaks painting the sky.
Maybe I’ll put on
rose colored glasses today.
I’ll straighten my hair,
put on hoop earrings,
a cotton crochet top,
no bra, and a peasant skirt.
I’ll go about my day hippy-happy.
Why Not?
I’ll look at the world from the
meow-man perspective.
I’ll put a little love in my life,
a new landscape,
a little softness,
a little soft focus at the edges,
Vaseline on my lens
use a pink gel.
Why not?
So that when I sit on the
405 this morning the
cars will take on a magenta hue.
All that pink metal strung
together like a large
moving centipede.
Why Not?
Like that line of poetry
written by Tomas Transtomer
I heard on NPR after he won
the Nobel Prize for Literature
in 2011,
something about how each car
became a segment of a centipede
or a millipede.
Either way,
I think I’ll make it a
rose-colored day.