A Monday. Summer sun rises above the trees, dapples the burnt grass, begins to pour its heat over the pond. A perceptible silence but if you listen, tinny blinds flap against wood framed windows as a breeze moves gently around. Springy and lightweight, the claw-like curved ends of Hemlock branches, bob up and down with the cool air’s movement. And now I hear the caw caw of the blackbird. A truck in the distance on the highway. I’m sitting in my office on the second floor, a huge bank of windows behind me with a stunning view of the trees.
Business of the day: A guest checking in this afternoon at 5:30 with her husband and daughter. Then tomorrow we go to Seattle to see Lori and her family. So much will get in the way today. Making beds, planting bulbs. Sending out Fourteen, my novel.
Three projects to mail on the counter over there. Things to send to my relatives. A sister, a nephew, a niece. I have this feeling, my desk is cluttered, the house a mess. I keep finding things in the closet that I want to throw out, or give away, but so many strings hold me down. Mud around my ankles. The basement is full of junk, haphazardly strewn in the cobwebbed dark down there, and yet I can’t seem to coordinate, commit to, a garage sale.
This morning in corpse pose after my half hour yoga practice, it became simple: I can figure it out. It’s not a bone that I must push around the plate, endlessly nudging and sniffing at.
I can find a way forward, a way to be with my family of origin. A way that is enough. My family whom I long to connect with deeply.
There are many obstacles. It may be impossible. And yet.
