I've noticed, though, that my Thanksgiving seasons are getting longer, and longer and longer. They extend well into December and up until and through Christmas. I was at King Sooper's night before last and went up to greet all the cut down trees awaiting the crank down of dusty Christmas tree stands, dry heat, and neglectful watering. I inhaled their woodsy upbringing. I teared up and began laughing at the same time. I could try to explain, but I won't. Gratitude.
There's usually a little blip for me around December 25th where I'm American style psycho stressed and predictably straddling the love/hate line of the holiday season. Kids are helping me get over myself more and more. And then, after a lot of doing stuff, January comes and I'm grateful for the new evident longer days...detox, clean surfaces, new beginnings, that Quo Vadis I bought today. I have an intense invitation and impulse to de-clutter. I appreciate white walls, re-potted plants, simply steamed greens. I celebrate my birthday, I soak in hot springs with dear friends. And I reinvigorate my practices and good habits. January is a gentle, strange month. Somewhat of a let down, used to be, but actually quite welcome now.
And then comes pink and red and short snowy February. Valentine's Day is an easy target -- I used to detest it. But then I loved to hate it, I graduated to making fun of it, of lovers, of being a lover and calling myself "lover" and generally just overusing that word. But now I actually kind of love VD, and February, and making things your own -- that whole creative challenge. Feb 14 is my dad's anniversary and a day after my daughter Phoebe's birthday. It's such a short month, and wow: Black History month. Gotta love all of that. All months should be so lucky. And yes: OK. Here's March. Longer, dreary still, but crocuses start smiling nearby and my crappy hiking shoes are getting a breath of air, muddy soles, toe stank, some good fecund life stories.
School feels different for the kids, and there's usually a trip to take somewhere -- maybe this spring break we'll actually plan something? A little drive...a picnic somewhere new...at least sleep in regularly? Most people do this around now. I know what I'll be Googling tomorrow. In April, my other favorite month, Willoree will turn 6. It might rain some more. I love rain so much, maybe you do too?
I am beginning to plant rows of peas, Willoree will arrange them and sing to them. I am saving money for gardening things, cooking differently, and eventually I'll uproot (finally) last year's thick, neglected stalks of kale, collards, cauliflower. Weeds even seeming OK, welcome. If I have snow tires I might thing of taking them off, but that will be premature. I am grateful; life's running me at a pretty good clip. Where does the time go?
May is this harbinger of all things good, loud, yang to come. People are getting social, I notice. When I lived in NYC I called it boobie season. Warm weather comes and all the girls are wearing skimpy tank tops, and their breasts are bobbing all over the place as they walk, fast, all over the place. Probably more than 4 million girls = 8 millions boobies just out swaying in the springtime breeze. I guess I was one of them. Life's looking brighter. Days qualify as being long now, and we're all getting senior-itis in our own ways.
Perhaps Quella's shedding is under control. I am sleeping as well as ever, and eating and working and always feeling the balancing act that is my life. I am working out. I usually take out all the old Abraham recordings and give them a listen, a spring/early summer thing that has inadvertently become a regular thing with me. I am thrilled. Brewing. In love. Tilling. Planting.
Summer whirs, and I never know what summer will bring. It will pass too fast, but seem too slow while it's happening, much in the same way that parents I know have described their kids' childhoods. There will be teeth lost, words learned, miles traveled, new ideas let's hope and memories; aches and pains and a lot of laundry hanging on the line. Mosquito bites and fresh food, farmer's markets, small scrapes and overpowering heat and brown shoulders, more work, late nights, the sounds of box fans in the windows. Ben and I will paint the house, and read more chapters in more books...outloud, to each other, to ourselves. My practice is heavy and juicy and my hair is longer; I will wear new shoes that don't hurt my feet, throw the old ones out I've been wearing now for six years. I deserve some new shoes. I am so grateful. The whir of it all.
The fall comes and I breathe it in deeply. I think to myself: yes, fall is really my favorite season (even though spring comes and I wonder whether spring is actually my favorite season) and we celebrate Ben's birthday, our wedding anniversary, the little NM sunflowers that bloom for Ben and the splay of gnarly fucking 9" long grasshoppers are grossing me out hourly. I use Ben's September 5th birthday as a New Year's Day of sorts: a time to count my blessings, love him better, forgive myself all my asshole moments. I adore our setting, glowing and rich and flowers everywhere...colorful and abundant and home. I am aware and appreciative of the simplicity with which we operate and the complexities I can't seem to escape. I get the sheer retardation of my plodding. I drink some coffee, or tea, or a beer. Definitely good water. I stay curious about peak foods. I am uplifted, renewed, growing; I am still alive. And I'm grateful.
I moved to CO late October years and years ago and October's face -- a first snow, the smell of leaves against that impossibly blue sky, all the nuance of brown and tan around here, pumpkins lying around -- makes me twirl in my heart and head. I delight in the feelings of being in a new place, hopeful of a new relationship, living in a new home, another new beginning. October has become petting zoos, corn mazes, fundraisers at school and (by the way dear god please don't let me NOT buy a butter braid for Willoree next year or she'll be so, so sad) and going inside. I will head to Rebecca's more often. I crave sushi, retreat, and appreciate all over again the yoga retreat I was attending last year with my BBBBBBFs. I sell some of Angela's CDs and DVDs.
I will prepare for another November, as if it just happened yesterday -- and will not have lost sight of the "importance" of things like iCal vs. Quo Vadis. The ludicrous, sweet nature of being a human with planning and organization needs in the 21st century. The spirit underlying all of it, unchanging, unchanging. I sweep up dog hair. On my best days I am truly, deeply grateful. On my worst: I am overwhelmed, and forgetful of the shakti animating all, every, now. Even my lapses of awareness. The dog hair, like my soul, goes on. The CD is on repeat.
I might complain about clutter, have pant in wad when I'm running late. I have spent hours obsessing about which snow tires to put on my car. Dumb shit, life kind of shit. I peep down occasionally and realize that I'm a wealth of OK-ness. I'm one bad ass little boo bunny puja. Gratitude will not let up.
We can time travel as needed. We do it all the time. We might try the Mexican-themed Thanksgiving next year, and we hope to see you there. Hott. I am hoping that you all are doing OK, and if you're not, you probably will be again. Not to make light of any of us. Maybe a little.
I am grateful right now for this doing pretty well state I find myself in, and I know that it won't last. I'll hit some more walls, fall down, hate and curse and feel oceans of self-pity again, probably. And I'll probably dear diary about that, too.
PS Ira Glass: thanks for bringing a cheer, again, to my hour.
No comments:
Post a Comment