It was that old adage which caught her up on that early March afternoon. ‘A fool and his money is soon parted’.
And so it was, she thought. She looked down at the ledger lying on the table. This book, these pages and lines were a poignant, nay, even lovely reminder and an example of the human condition.
She stretched a bit and yawned. ‘We are all in various stages of foolishness, it would seem’ she said to no one in particular.
I sat on my glasses last night. It was brilliant. Brilliant as in masterful, precise, delivered with the exacting of a drone strike. Truly artful. Or as my husband put it, ‘Bullseye!’
The only collateral damage was my pride.
Both stems were taken clean off with the mini screws still intact. The decorative crystals and pearls were unscathed and unscratched. The glass lens were unbent and unbroken…staring up at me with a sort of jocular air having gained independence from the stems.
It was an excellent, precise strike.
When I visit the repair shop, I am not going to explain this damage. I may not even admit to it.
It’s all fake news, as far as I am concerned…
To remember the specific detail, the forgotten temperament, the smaller person, the subtle color…that was everything. We were drowning in the bigger picture, the never ending noise…the world which would not cease talking…
The world which refused to interrupt the yelling…
It was time for the single petal, the nuanced emotion of a child’s face, vanished in a split second. To miss these details… in the end, meant missing absolutely everything important.
We were desperate to paint, to breathe, to touch the lost second, the unheard words…the skin’s touch…the truth…
The next time someone suggests I join a ‘Community circle’, I would like to make a counter offer.
In a heartbeat, I would join a crop circle. I suspect a large number of teachers would willingly join a crop circle. It’s amazingly close to our lived experience and daily work lives.
We’re not sure exactly how we got here. We may be trapped. We’re most likely surrounded by aliens.
I’m good with it.
Carry me on my way…o rambling road…for where you stride, is my abode. Whether brick on brick with sturdy, heated walls…or by a rain-sodden portico with scalloped edges…I go where you go and rest in your dwelling.
For my people have become your people and your family, mine.
A pegged tent driven hard by life’s rain or at the blue edge of wealth’s offering…I saunter side by side and hand in hand, together with you.
Carry me on my way…o rambling road, for where you rest, is my abode.
And then…early on a March morning…I heard a mourning dove…
Struggling in the dark space of worrying about tomorrow; an anxious place too small to cuss a cat, I awaken to the slightly disturbing sound of late February rains…the ice flows in chunks out of gutters and down to the frosted grass. Will the edge of the roof jam up and leak? It did that a couple of years ago and there remain two delicately shaped brown spots on the ceiling. It was a half hearted attempt at leakage…just enough to remind us of who and of what is in charge.
The old strands, the tired spirit of spring is resting out there, somewhere. This is the teasing thaw of February and March is soon upon us. The longest month of the year…31 days of ‘will it rain? Will it snow, sleet, thaw, flood or ice?’ Some brave robins flit in and about and their numbers will soon expand. One morning they spend inordinate amounts of time and energy scurrying around the large tree by the porch…then three mornings in a row, they are gone and the tree stands silent.
After strong coffee and rain watching, some music serves purpose and various versions of Amazing Grace and idyllic Irish tunes soon pour out over the kitchen. March is upon us in sound, if not in exact date. The light in the window begins its slow transformation…from damp greying to more hints of gold and yellow and something akin to sage. Even for a bit, I catch glimpses of it on the glass pane…a surge mid morning, before everything sinks back down in wet fog.
‘I feel so Irish, now…I do, I do!’ he calls out as he heads down the stairs. He sees me in the living room and tips his head back laughing. ‘But I’m not! I’m not!’ and he keeps laughing.
I hand him a thick mug of freshly brewed coffee. ‘You’re just jealous that we tell better jokes than you do!’ I retort. He laughs again. ‘Yes, you do. But we’re still going to Spain first before we make any trip to Ireland’. He takes a swig and sits down to watch the rain. ‘Oh sure’ I concede and look out of the glass, now shimmering again in sage as the damp outside powers forward in a fleeting surge. ‘Oh yes, indeed’. And…the glass winks back at me.
The same ship, the same ocean, the same fierce winds…only the height and measure of the sails differ…’who bids the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep…’
Blow, if you must March gales…for winter…we are finished with you. The cold’s contract is complete, signed in grey and sealed with exhaustion.
Our eyes turn toward the long anticipated greening of the fields as the faint strains of ‘O Danny Boy’ birthe liltingly and trippingly over rutted, frozen potato mounds. The raw earth and the twisted fence line, they mark time’s passage. Winter threw us famine and now we are cooking up thick, oily and crunchy potato cakes.
Smell the black sod and the heated food. Blow if you must March gales, but the shamrock fog shall soon carry you far away…
Funny things happen. I’m getting my pedicure, sitting in my chair, relaxing and watching the diminutive man paint my toes ever so expertly and carefully…so, so carefully. Precision and artistry. Suddenly!…Furiously! In bursts a woman…bells on the door jangling with abandon.
Cacophony! She’s tall and frantic and says way too loudly…’I got here as fast as I could!’
She looks directly at me but I see only a harried face, large sunglasses…a half donned medical mask.
So. I look away and pretend I am somewhere else.
Needless to say, the precise artist is now re-painting…ever so carefully…so, so carefully…my toes.
We were both taken aback. It was jarring. But of course neither of us will ever admit it…
In the gloaming eve, as the heavy greying blue clouds hint at more snow to come…somewhere, sometime…the spirit most usually withdraws, sighing gently as a close to the day.
The shutting of the door, folding into companionship, warm food and the body wrapped in flannel, absorbed in prayer and thought…the inner life unfolds with twilight…
690 Saint Paul 