there are small gestures
in semi-sleep
as two bodies
rearrange themselves
under covers
where toes brush ankles
and one knee
hooks between two
outside
pre-dawn darkness
pools
big slow
droplets
rolling
rain
from the rooftop
inside
a bare shoulder
rests surrounded
in crisp air
skin uncovered
cool to the touch
it’s a simple motion
of a languid
other
hand
half-dreaming
that moves to pull
a soft sheet
up and over
that cold shoulder
one light pat
then gently drawing
back
to sleep
Waking a bit groggy and sullen. No particular reason, though in hindsight she realized that the size of the moon had its influence on her personal body of water. Hormones surging. That a dose of evening primrose oil would have softened her edge.
But she wasn’t thinking self-care or solutions as she readied herself to drive her husband to the neighbor’s farm. She was only feeling agitation in the kitchen as a case was built for how the day was simply going wrong.
No clean spoons. They were out of milk. The bathroom sink was clogging. Even the tune her husband quietly whistled seemed mocking. An insult to her injury, the notes emanating from his happy throat she used to chastise herself for being anything but cheery.
It was a downward spiral. A world perceived through a lens of negativity. She could feel her husband patiently provide a wider berth, which only served to annoy her further. There were whispers from the far recesses of her mind, cautioning that she was in a state void of reason. Yet, she felt unable to reverse the pessimistic pull.
Once enclosed within the confines of the truck cab, they drove quietly, her moodiness magnified, though her husband smiled, unaffected. She knew she should speak little in her self-imposed state, but logic left her by the second curve in the road.
It was something outlandish. Maybe it was the way he tied the lace of his boot that suddenly signaled to her an immediate need to discuss all things relationship. Who cared that they were five minutes from their destination. That he was readying for a morning of chain saw work in the jungle. They needed a heart-to-heart now. Her eyes filled with emotional tears. They were the moonbeam version of which, only a woman knows. She knew it too, but could not stop herself.
Her spouse was kind but clear. They couldn’t talk about it now. Later, yes. But now, no.
And with that, they approached that big hill. The one on which she always shifted their automatic into second gear, so as to make the climbing easier. Swirling in emotion, her hand reached for the gear shift. The wheels began the incline, her hand moved the gear, the truck came to an immediate halt as the heavy sound of unhappy metal churned from beneath the hood.
She heard the word “Damn!” come from her mouth.
The truck was stopped. Her husband, still calm beside her. They stayed there paused on the sloping hill.
How had her hand mistaken reverse for second gear?
Stalled, the truck still idling, all debris of melancholy, dirty spoons, clogged drains and workboot shoelaces disappeared.
“Did I just break my car?”
“I don’t think so.” He sat there without a trace of judgement as she silently scolded herself for being so careless.
Slowly, she put the truck in drive, testing. The vehicle began moving forward up the hill, as normal. Carefully, she accelerated, listening for any sound of mechanical malfunction. All seemed fine, but she was still uncertain.
“I mean, what damage can be done by putting your car in reverse while it’s driving? I can’t believe I did that. I’m afraid I may have just ruined it.”
She heard him with the slightest smile. “Well, just don’t do it that often.”
As part of a retrospective on my recent travels to California, I’m offering another installment to the series “Excerpts from the Coastal Dwelling.” A collage of journal entries, narrative, photographs and random poetic waxing.
Here’s Day Two:
the California Sweater
The pools become my addiction. I’m called to them again and again. Three times yesterday in a short amount of hours. I end the day and begin the day with the baths. Hot water. Cold water. Steep deep. Let the steam rise from bare skin on cold coastal air. Every combination. Quiet. Speaking. Silent. Alone. Communal. Wash hair. Keep hair dry.
After soaking I bundle and seal in all of the healing warmth with socks and boots, double layers and the California Sweater [named so because it’s stored in CA for when I come to visit]. The wool blanket/sweater I rescued from the giveaway bag – my father’s – the one he got in Mexico twenty years ago. It exudes the subtle scent of slightly damp wool and the weave lightly prickles my skin. This sweater is wrapped around me now as I write ink to paper and gaze at the ring – the jade one from Hawaii – its silver casting has turned iridescent turquoise from the minerals of the hot spring. I really must remember to start taking jewelry off in the baths.
[Though I was cleansing in the waters, I was emotionally steeped in the essence of the love with the rocket scientist that had seeded in that very place the year before. I was making peace with landmarks around every corner.]
It all came up today – a small cry, really, but one still the same. We were instructed in our workshop to write our life’s key points in five year increments. Thinking of the past felt like raw tenderness. Any recollecting just brought a floodgate of grief for the love that grew from these very grounds one year ago.
These crystalline moments of sweet connection are enmeshed in the landscape here. I pass the grassy field where we knelt and shared a tangerine while butterflies flit around our heads. There’s the cliffside bench, the corner tree, that table in the solarium. I walk past the cabin and the Bottle Brush tree – the backdrop for our happy photos. The scene’s familiar but he has vanished.
If I was not left with questions I think that I could walk among our monuments with gentle thoughts and sweet memories. A gratitude. Can I still find this place inside myself even if the questions are never answered?
Facilitator encourages me to be thankful for what we did share. She says sometimes things don’t always look the way we thought they would. And as we write our intentions and desires regarding our livelihood – our place in the world – the doubts arise about dreams. Are they really possible? Can I trust my heart?
For the Archives 