Heidi Beth

i could be

write me a cool night, windy
jacket zipped, sleeves pulled down
hints of yesterday's storm drizzling
nothing really

call it solitude
beneath a starless haze
add a distant city bus
and a thousand tires
rolling through downtown

an omelet
made with butter please
an iron table
a black sandwich sign near the curb
swinging just enough to be noticed

a man donning a red apron
washing the window table behind thick glass
(he's warm, unable to feel tonight's air
rush onto his eyelids)

"89" in bold type
clipped to a heavy purple ball
beside my computer
a green canvas purse
on damp cement
looped to my faded denims

and me, with hastily arranged hair
full of rubber bands
clips and hair spray
wrapped in darkness
and streetlight
entranced by a white screen
and an obsessive desire
to recreate one instant

for this moment, i am poetry

Incomplete Meditation

I don't like waiting and loose ends, but I appreciate the outcome of determination balanced with patience. I like singing along. I like warm sunny days followed by cold snuggly nights. I like when brothers appreciate each other, faces contorted into giggly art, bellies jiggling.

For years, my "right now" has been exceedingly beautiful. I am growing accustomed to serene days, lack of drama.

Still, my prayer is forever, "O God, I pray to always remember where I came from." This plea is my guard against ingratitude, hope that I may always understand a fellow traveler hunted by wounds inflicted when they were the innocent budding being, talking life in with few questions, unaware, blinded by inexperience.

I used to wander Chicago's streets, every day a slow walk to nowhere, wondering if ever I would be granted a reprieve, a release from the prison of my failed best intentions to "make it" in the world. With each measured step, I was also breathing in, observing without judgment, the world. I began to understand that the mental instability I believed to be a part of my being, had been given without my permission, not chosen, and therefore I could let go, little by little, day by day, gathering beauty and sense around me as a robe of light.

Many a stranger have I passed on the street, their faces revealing a hunger for sanity, a desire to lighten the load their life has become. If I am alone, clear, open, I am flooded with love, speaking in the quiet of my thoughts, "You are so dear."

I've been thinking about Ann Nichol's post, The First Cut.

Some thoughts have no closure.

Stuff

My husband and I have admitted that as long as everyone in our family is safe, our house burning down would feel like a blessing... once we all recovered from disbelief.

We hang on to so much useless-to-us stuff, letting it camp in boxes, drawers, closet-backs, above cabinets, in a dank garage, on high storage shelves, in a neglected filing cabinet, even plain sight, in the form of never-to-be-opened-again-by-us books.

My dear and I wish to be minimalists (so far as inanimate objects we call ours), but getting there takes effort. Worth the work, but we dawdle, daunted by the prospect of voluntarily letting go neat things and the emotional tearing off of a band-aid so to speak.

I weigh 137 lbs, so says my father's bathroom scale. No mechanism can register the weight of accumulated matter that I keep around either because I'd rather not deal with sorting and properly parting with no-longer-needed items or from unhealthy attachments, as in the case of three Ikea drawers holding "spare" pens, most of them full of gunked up ink, pens we might "need" someday. Honestly I didn't know we had so many pens until yesterday when my son asked for helping putting up his cool new Pokemon poster and I went in search of thumb tacks.

Note to self: purge the pen supply please!

When it comes to writing implements, attachment may be too strong a word. But what of the cute baby clothes hanging around in a blue plastic box, high up on a shelf in a spare room. I'm attached to the memory of our boys wearing these precious fabrics and intend to dress our next child, should we have another, in the same beauty. I don't know where to draw the line.

Leo Buscaglia wrote of a people who move every six months when monsoon season arrives. How attached or pseudo-practical could one be when consuming waters come every year, demanding rafts be built, floating dwellings to live on until land is available once more. Yet, the big rain visits again in a few short months. I do not wish to live and move to the rhythm of extreme weather, but holding onto nothing but my family and a few truly necessary possessions does sound extraordinarily sane.

This day is 10 of 30 for my self-assigned clearing project. I sold a few cupcake pans and assorted kitchen supplies this morning and expect to part with more this afternoon and evening. Yesterday, we sold the bulk of our baking supplies to a minister and his wife. They have a large congregation and a church with two kitchens. Glad our wares will be put to good use.

Between Bouts of Detachment

Dreams require errands and chocolate has replaced cigarettes... almost. I imagine you there, reading, but not hearing the same music I write to. In a moment of discouragement I wonder if we ever connect to another living soul. In a second flash, I wonder how our interconnectedness with every being is ever overlooked.

This is my impatient space, wordy, antsy, prone to philosophical monologues. I'm on draft four, wishing a poem would begin already. Chicken, rice, peas, cheese and Curious George behind The Beatles don't produce poetic today.

Any number of positive comments could accurately be made about me, but not "She is patient." She is okay with that, impatience can look and act like determination. Today and yesterday, being less than acquiescent about waiting to see which way the wind blows, I'm not at my best. Fortunately I'm still ahead of myself this time last year, which is the goal, progress not perfection.

Yesterday I gave away a box of books, today a couple bags of clothes. I pulled all of our baking business supplies out of the spare bedroom where a generous path has now been carved through mostly ignored belongings. This is why I assigned myself thirty days. Discouragement can be lessened with small successes.

Day Three of 30 - Purge Journal

I spent three slow hours at the library this afternoon. My son was in Pokemon league and I was a fixture in a beautiful cafe surrounded by walls of windows. I investigated educational sites for home schooling, periodically eyed my other stunningly beautiful child as he played Lego Starwars, posted on craigslist, and visited southern-style with a friend who was also waiting for her son.

I kept checking and re-checking email to see if a certain other friend wanted a stack of books I messaged her about. I was hoping she would say that yes, she wanted them and could I please drop them off today. Then I would have easily fulfilled my self-assigned task of giving away at least one item from our home. No reply before leaving the library.

I had a plan B just in case. In a small white bag I had placed a pair of kid-sized lace up sneakers, several black metal bookends, and two decorative candle platforms. After Pokemon club, we drove to Goodwill to deliver this small offering. As I walked up to the donation dock, three guys jubilantly informed me that I came just in time as they were about to close. I handed off that used gift with three minutes to spare.

After dropping a couple of very cute boys at their grandparent's house, I went home for a quiet hour. The hoped for email had arrived. My friend does want those books I left in the truck. At least I have a clear plan for one of the remaining twenty seven days of purging!

Follow up to a "boring" warning

I'm on day two of 30 for getting rid of at least one of (ideally more) our possessions each day. Today I gathered up a garbage bag full of winter coats and misc clothing, drove it to Goodwill, then sold and delivered a small freezer that's been sitting idle in our garage for over a year. Our friend came by and now owns a chair and a large potter with soil and fertilizer included.

It's just after 9:30pm, we're eating a juicy cantaloupe, and the boys are winding up a good day day with a loud Pokemon battle. I've wandered in and out of the spare room several times. I'm beginning to figure out what can go tomorrow. Clothes? Decorations we're hoping to give to people who will really enjoy them? Will someone respond to my freecycle post and cart away more garage inhabitants?

Either way, spring is here. I'm looking forward to afternoon bike rides to the health food store, post office, or in wide circles around town. That's my alone time, but also reconnecting, with what is real and always nearer than I'm aware of when I sit in a sheltering vehicle, like a warm breeze, faces of children who walk in finger-snapping packs, a close up squirrel chase, or any number of nearly touchable scenes.