white buddha

dear universe

WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #34

Sitting in the cold open window at One-World Coffee next to the railroad tracks. Beside me: a row full of dead and dying geraniums. Exception: an adventurous branch has grown up under the table lampshade and sprouts frilly green leaves there, hidden and secret.

So many of us hide from the sun, preferring artificial light to nourish us. It’s safer that way, no one disturbs us, no one compares us to other hothouse varieties. But is it healthy?

I started my weekly writer’s blog nine months ago and the impending one-year anniversary has me wanting to hide from the sun, maybe you’ve noticed. I’ve missed a few weeks, inspiration seems to be lacking. I feel as colorless as our yard. The Maximillion daisies have lost their bloom and are bending in the cold wind. They were brown stalks in my first essay, and they are soon to become brown stalks again.

The landscape has that stillness that foreshadows what we all are waiting for—snow. The leaking outdoor faucet has been fixed, the hose rolled up, even the worm beds will get their winter jacket of leaves soon. The grasses have seeded, and a new plum tree has been planted and watered for the last time. Now there is nothing but to wait.

Walking Asher out to the bus in the morning, the ground is wet from the rain. Sometimes the neighbors’ houses are hidden in the fog. We use our ears instead of our eyes to cross the street. I’m using my ears instead of my eyes in other ways, too. Listening for the universe to say, “OK, I agree, you’re ready. Here’s that 3-book contract. Can you get started right away?”

The universe is difficult to hear. Hard to distinguish that small but sturdy voice from all the other loud and gaudy ones. But I did hear it a week ago.

My mother-in-law gifted us some money and was wiring it to our bank. It was a much needed and appreciated gift, and I planned to update all our bills chart and accounts as well as balance the budget. But I kept putting it off. I didn’t want to figure out money until I had some. I ignored the voice—more of a feeling, really, a sense—that told me as soon as I did the budget, the money would come.

A 24-hour transfer took days. Strange occurrences and delays happened. All the while I ignored the voice, until one day I said out loud, “OK, I’m doing the bills!” It took three hours to catch up, file papers, search for stamps, retrieve online passwords. About a half hour before I was done, I said, again out loud, “OK, I’m almost done with the bills! One more transaction!” I finished at 3:30 pm. “I’m done! I’m filing the papers now!” Thirty minutes later the gift appeared in our bank account.

So, my preference is to hide, wait till I’m discovered, write when I want and what I want. But my instinct says, “Have that new idea for a series of books set in Santa Fe ready. Pick some more agents to try DIZZY with. Follow up on those editing jobs.”

Like that Thundercloud plum tree we planted ten days ago, my roots are just starting to feel the dark earth beyond the pot.
~ ~ ~
Above: Ron and Colin plant the plum tree.

spiraling memories

WEEKLY WRITER'S PATH #33

At a specific time between my last posting and this morning — which was much too long, forgive me — the snow came. When the clouds dispersed, the peaks that surround us were dusted white. Frost had revealed itself on the darkest earth and turned some leaves black and shriveled. It’s time to get the leak in the outdoor faucet fixed.

I spend too much time photographing the sunflowers as their seeds turn shiny black. But their vibrancy in developing food for other animals and seeds of themselves interests me much more than their blowsy, sunny, halcyon days.

Pinched my finger in the closet door today leaving a black welt under the skin like I was an alien’s experiment in the Xfiles. I couldn’t fathom why it made me so utterly lonely and sad. Even after I had doused it in ice water, put arnica over the bruise, antibiotic cream on the swelling blood blister, and swallowed 1000mg of ibuprofen, still I felt abandoned in the world.

Dear Mom:

The Bears won Monday night, just thought you’d like to know. They were down 20 to 0 against Arizona when Ron and I rushed to the local bar since we don’t get Monday Night football anymore. I grabbed my Brian Urlacher action figure and Ron wore the sweatshirt ‘Berta gave him for Christmas years back.

The entire game was won by interceptions, fumbles and sheer psychological guts. When AZ could have had the victory — an easy field goal with 50 seconds left to play — I instructed Ron, “Blow! Like the windy city!” And we blew at the TV screen and that field goal floated wide. Final score: 24 to 23. The Bears are now 6 and 0; you’d think it was 1985.

This morning I told Talaya all about how we flew to Chicago and drove to LaGrange to see you in the hospital when she was two. That was fifteen years ago.

You had a bag of gifts for her all ready like it was her birthday: a Bears shirt and pants with orange ruffles, a shiny pink tutu, and a clown made of quilted circles that scared her too much.

The nurses in ICU kept scolding me for letting her run around, but she had just learned she could go fast and those long hallways were such a temptation. Don’t put her down, they’d whisper angrily to me, then list all the germs she could get.

After they moved you upstairs, it was easier, but I remember one dreadful night when the strain of losing my mother was too much.

Visiting hours were over and Talaya and I had just come through the revolving door when she wouldn’t budge; crossed her arms and steadfastly refused to move. I had too much stuff to carry to pick her up, and demanded she follow me or I was going to leave her behind.

I started to walk away but she didn’t care or show any sign of weakening. I walked all the way down the sidewalk before I turned, thinking she would automatically run to catch up. I was a new mom, and this battle of wills was one of our first. She had no question at all in her face that she was worried that I would leave her. In fact, perhaps she was hoping I would leave her alone to explore those shiny, brightly-lit, endless squeaky halls that had become her racing ground.

I’d like to say what happened at that point was a moment of compassion between us derived from physical and emotional exhaustion. That I remembered all those nights I was in high school and drove the short distance to meet you when you finished your shift at 11pm. That the memories of your working in the hospital would merge with the new memories of your dying in the same hospital, and I would find a greater mother’s love and forgiveness. But life is mathematically, logarithmically complex.

What happened next was a nurse came through the door, leaving for the night. She walked between us and took note of the situation immediately giving me a reproachful look.

I went back, tucked Talaya under my arm like another parcel, a kicking screaming parcel, and we struggled together through the parking lot.

How little we knew then about being apart. Even now, the idea that my daughter and I will be separated is only in our jokes, as in, “Talaya is going to live with us forever, right Talaya?” Rolling of green eyes.

It’s not that I don’t feel your love, mom. I always have. In everything I do from writing a page to petting our silly dog.

It’s being without you physically that continues to pull at something so deep it can only be the other side of my belly button.

Love, Missy