Being born into this world, we step into an enormous round and spinning clock.
We are timeless, yet we agree to play by the minutes and the hours, the days and years, the rising and falling of tides, the spinning sun and the orbiting moon. We agree to begin and end, to bumble recklessly into birthing and dying. We are pulled on by the seasons, the gravity, the breaking down of our matter – you can date our bones, after we are gone and tell when we were animated. We feel the planets constantly pulling tricks on us with cycles of discomfort and harmony. We agree to marry change.
Living near the coast is still so cool to me; the breathing of the earth is palpable in the rising and falling of her waters. The tides were so evident when I lived on a boat. All day long, my living area was rising or falling, except for those few tender moments at the top or the bottom where all was still for about 30 minutes. Some part of me probably still registers this cycle, deep in a seawater womb within.
When arriving at the beach, I must see where the water is meeting the sand; its position is a lucy goose clock, a conversation starter; is it coming in or going out I set to many walking by? Most shrug; who cares? I am blatantly ignoring the phone app for tide schedules, here. I love the unknowing of such things, yet setting out for a stroll requires this information; at high tide, some parts the beach become inaccessible. This island is always shifting; where once the beach was eroding, now it may be growing.
Lately, I’ve been feeling the pull of a longer cycle, less daily than the tide, but more seasonal…decennial even.
Tick, tock; where am I now? Is the tide coming in or going out?
In one small moment, I see the tides have shifted recently here in the cycling of my life. I am somewhere new – a new section of the clock countdown of my life as marga. It has been coming; it was marked on the calendar, but the actual playing out of it, this transition, came in a moment no one saw but me.
As a parent, as the tide is shifting toward adulthood, that movement can be difficult to detect. Chloe not only has the strings to my heart memorized, she also, at times, can play the notes of a song that shifts the responsibility to me for everything from the chores to her happiness to the meaning of life, overall. When does it, this life, become fully hers?
Independence is occurring from the minute breath says GO! Gradually, gradually, until, whoosh. Where am I?
We were finishing up our meal of take-out Thai a week or so ago when Chloe became determined that I should watch a tv show that she likes. We watched the first episode of “House of Cards,” until about 1/2 way through, when I realized that we had not cleaned up our meal.
I began to go to the kitchen when Chloe put her hand on my back and said, “I’ve got this. I want you to just watch the show.” She cleaned up the kitchen herself.
Why did this small gesture feel so big?
I know at 18 many would say, of course she can clean a kitchen by herself, and yes, she can and does, but it was the way she chose to do it, with love and care that marked some sort of shifting, with her focus, her kindness.
I am full of clichés, today. Might as well finish with a few more – Summer hints of fall. A rising tide lifts all boats. To everything there is a season. Maybe a purpose to everything under heaven, but more likely, every every every thing is an excuse to bring out the ukelele, devil cape, and red pumps, I am inclined to say 🙂
In the month of August was full with doodles and poems each day on a postcard, sent to random strangers. This link was sent to me from a friend. I am just cataloguing the experience here. Here are a few of the rough poems and drawings that made their way through the mail to strangers.
Let the wind increase your speed; let it move you right along. Or sit still in august heat, let the hot air seep in deep. Stay or go, fast or slow? Before you even ask a question, the answer lingers there, in the motion of the air, or the still ness of all things.
I left you keys, money in an envelope with your name on it, a grocery list, reminders: the garbage rolls out on Monday, the doctor will see you on Tuesday put the laundry in the bin, and please, dear god, will you wipe up the counters when you spill, every time you do anything, actually, like eat, you know? I bought you a gift card at the self-esteem store, redeem that as needed, otherwise, I think you are grown.
Meet me in a speakeasy bakery, catch me here with full on gluten glow. I’ve butter as well, and full fat creamed tea, dying sooner than my pumpkin seeded, vegan ex-husband, who might be sucking self-righteous bumperstickers for dinner. Can it be that taboo tastes enliven in back alley secrecy? You joining me here, a partner in crimes, tasting, joy in full measure; what else is there to do but savour?
We have not met except for the quick lock of eyes when I was boarding and passed you on the aisle by your seat, though from behind, I am reading your body, for not only have you imprinted words and images from your shoulder to your pinky on only the right side, but also, your thick neck, muscle tension, terse motions, and thin shirt all communicate beyond all silly play at words. I conform to the rules of this world with my behavior, but I have to sit on my hands so I will not rub your neck, run my hands along the ink lines – this is not lusting like you may think. I only see you, I know you, I wish to ease your pain.
The gift for reading minds can be painful, especially in airports. Father, mother, daughter, you each in your own way would be anywhere but here, with anyone but these people, your family. Rock-star, leather clad man, can you hold it down? In line, eyes averted, each person leaks into the air a noisy station that I cannot drown out. My own and almost grown is out ahead of me now, toppling in such heels, shifting from pain to joy – I am tuning into you!
For you, Max, I bought some new pens. I sat and drew for a good long time. I put off my work, I fed no one dinner, I fell into another place. I have met you before, and I see what you can do with tools and time. You made me want to try “it” on, this pen and paper cloak. I liked the quiet and the mysterious, non-verbal flow of ink and no one died from hunger.
Life as Improv 