I've been hankering, or hungering, to come to the page and write but ever since Claire and I returned from our Green Mt. State road trip where I was feeling so damn free i felt a little lost back home
[it was probably dangerous...all that freedom]
Michael's leg was swollen up like a weird watermelon and then our neighbor, Arnold, who had been dying, died. A small group went to his funeral on Tuesday while it poured buckets and the sky just seemed to get darker and darker and when the pastor invited anyone to share I got up in my wet jeans and told the story about how Arnold would walk past our house and how we'd meet at the end of my driveway sometimes.
Our exchange would go like this:
Beautiful day, I'd say.
Every day is a beautiful day, Arnold always said.
He had a weird sorta upside down smile and very blue eyes. I told the people in the church that it seemed to me that he was all lit up from the inside out the last few weeks of his life. That he seemed cracked open. And his eyes were very blue.
The sun came out brilliantly the very next day and Michael was told that his leg needed surgery so Thursday, or was it Friday, was spent on that. He went in and was very well cared for, while I wandered around the grounds, reading about spiritual economics and talking to a friend on the phone who had just found out her Mom is a little bit full of cancer.
Dad came for the weekend.
My brother and his wife and two boys came too. Baby brother.
I did a lot of cooking, pesto pasta, blueberry pancakes, which was funny since I don't really like to feed large groups of people/
I get easily overwhelmed which is why Michael always cooks the turkey at Thanksgiving. The whole damn meal.
I took Dad home today.
My heart felt sad and I kept looking over at him in the passenger seat, thinking, my dear old dad, holy shit how did he get to be almost 86, while he marveled at the view of the valley, his hands opening wide almost in a prayerful way. He always say wow when we come over that one hill. He thanked me for bringing him home and for all that you do for me, he said, and for helping me extend my life, I think that's what he said.
He's happy. We'd had a laughing weekend.
It still gets me; hugging him and walking away.
This probably sounds gloomy. It's not meant to be.
It's just that I've been
composting a whole lot.
Good stuff comes out of the
worries and joys.
The best thing is to just let it be.
Let yourself be
and all the thoughts
and things that come up and out, let them be...
Writing to you helps with all of this life business,
this being alive.