Paperbark Birch

You have these days that you think will never be over.  No, you think they’ll never arrive or you’ll never survive them and they’ll never pass by.  These days appear, at a distance, to be the calendar’s version of a klein bottle.   A groundhog’s day.  If you can somehow manage to get yourself inside of one, you’ll be there forever.

Today was the festival jurying and it took forever, or so it seemed at every juncture, but the envelopes were sealed and provided I fix the errors I’ve already found, it went incredibly smoothly.   Everyone was pleased and nobody died.  The day was so beautiful.  So beautiful, that naturally, I had to reward myself and I screwed up and ate a sandwich.  Just a couple pieces of bread, but instead of cascading and going emo about the errors and my life, I went and got an excellent dinner at my mother’s with some leftover pork loin and asparagus all kind of glazed in garlic and olive oil and herbs and some iced tea.  My mother, though she would never describe herself this way, is a kitchen witch.  She can make anything – nearly – certainly anything that would come to mind for you to want to eat, but she makes it better than you (or I ever could) and it makes you feel what she wants you to feel.  Happy, content, better than when you began.  Wiser, somehow, settled, braver, stronger.   This is a power I think many women, mothers, and I’m sure fathers (though mine puts grape jelly and parmesan cheese on toast as a bizarre delicacy) come to in time.  But I bless my mother for this gift whether or not I ever am able to do so well, she’s saved me from a tremendously painful and wrong decision to go dive into some food that is going to throw me backwards.  Instead, I am on track and excited to stay there.  Just at about 10,000 steps, too!  I may throw myself on the floor and struggle to get up a few times in the form of a sit-up.

I just am emotionally out of whack because work is stressful and I am trying to take time off but they need me so terribly much and this dude OKC-emailed me today and he seems vaguely sensible but at the same time, I am a hot mess and what am I inviting by responding when the driving and the body and the whole lack of…and at the same time, how much do I bitch about needing wanting craving someone to give a shit about me, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera?  It’s a big fuzzy blip that will signify nothing and die a quick death.

After this,  I plan to start re-ripping my finger tips on my guitar.  I crave that simple struggle and the little rewards I get every time I try.  Get some Dinah going there, too.

Well, no resting upon one’s laurels, there’s always more to do.  And I want to not collapse, flan in a cupboard-style – here in bed.

1 thought on “Paperbark Birch”

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