In the Zone

I had dropped two of them off at the high school, and turned down Main.
Thinking about the day ahead.
Warm car-seat makin' me cozy.
Not driving too fast.
Careful near the elementary school, children could run out.
Leaves on the trees so autumn-ish.


"Mom."

Just easing down the street.
Looking forward to getting back home.

"Mom."
"Mom."
Two soft voices now enter my consciousness.

I spy little faces in the rearview mirror.
Kind, funny, forgiving little faces.

That's right, I have two more, don't I?
They were so quiet back there.
Drove past their school.
Again.

No matter. I'll turn around.
Again.

They say, "It's okay, mom."
And they grin at each other.


I think it is okay.


.

Becoming Night

Today I have been by myself, except for the dog. The husband took the children away and will stay away all night, and all day tomorrow. He does this for me when it is time for me to be alone.

So I have been quiet today, not moving too much, not thinking too much. I looked out the window for a long time. I took the dog for a walk. I baked a cookie when I was hungry. I made tea.

And tonight, as the sky began to darken, I decided to let the night come. Instead of turning on lights, I have just let the darkness fall inside and out. I have a candle beside me, the computer monitor glows...but everything else has become dark. Shade by shade.

I like the idea of living that way every day. Opening my eyes when the morning comes, closing them when the sun goes down. And in between, when the heat makes the air thick and wet -- slowing and stopping, until the evening breeze blows it away.

I wonder how long it would take for my body to adjust. Most likely quicker than my mind. Even now I am writing because of an artificial assistant. Could I live with the quiet instead of trying to mute it with noise...and accept the gift of darkness instead of hiding it with light?

I wonder if I lived this way, how different I would be.

Send It Down The River

Tonight the boy twin pulled me to his room to talk. This one is always speaking, and needs listeners all day long it seems. I was tired at 9:30, and just wanted him asleep.

I said, "Maybe this is a time for listening and not talking." I said, "You have so many secrets inside of you, but if you are never quiet, you will never hear what they are." He had a thousand questions about secrets. Who tells them? What kind of secrets? How will I know it is a secret?

I hushed him and told him to close his eyes while I held his hand. I whispered that each night he should sit by the river and watch the boats come by. And see what is in the boats. And take the things out and look at them, and then send them down the river. And when all the things in his mind are sent away, maybe another boat will come, and he will find a secret.

He was very quiet for a long time. Then he said, "There is a boat coming."
"What is in it?" I asked.
"It's filled with boxes," he answered.
"Pick one. Pick the one that seems right to you. Send the rest down the river."

"I have it," he said, "but it's nailed shut."
"That's okay. Maybe it is just a difficult one to open.
Or maybe, it should be set aside and opened later on.
You're the only one who knows."

"I think I should open it. And I have a hammer."
I smiled. There was another long pause.

"Okay, it's open."
"What is inside?" I was dying of suspense.
Another long pause.
"Don't put anything into that box.
Don't put what you want me to see, and
don't put something silly in there to make me laugh.
Just look and tell me what you see."

"It's empty." He sounded sad.

"Oh! But that's wonderful!
That could mean anything!
Maybe it means that it doesn't really matter what you found,
it was all about just opening the box.
Or maybe it is a gift, of emptiness and space,
just for you."

"Or maybe," he said, "it means that
you don't always find what you're looking for."

Bedtime with a mystic.