if I were a metaphysical poet, there'd be some deeper meaning here

We've reached the putrid stage of Chicago summer. The weather has been fine, and the plant life is lovely, but the dumpsters and trash cans (sometimes with help from the lake) are winning the olfactory wars here in the city.

There are still some places where one finds relief. On Monday I had the best walk. It threatened rain but I decided I would not mind, and off I went down to the lakeshore path. Just as I reached the top of the path, the rain began. I waited it out a little under an awning and then continued, only to get caught by a more insistent downpour just as I reached a thick cluster of trees. I waited there, somewhat shielded, and watched the rain and admired the lake. There were some people nearby and soon a young man with an umbrella came and stood next to me. His name was Phil (if I recall correctly) and he was the sound guy for the show that he and the others were filming. We chatted and laughed and looked helplessly at the rain. When it finally slowed significantly, I continued on my way.

That's when the glorious thing happened. The sun made a surprise appearance in the midst of clouds and rain and the water, where the sun reached it, lightened to turquoise streaks against dark blue. The drops, where the sun beamed, looked like nothing so much as giant, gaudy sequins heaving along the waves. I was alone along the beach when this happened, and I laughed to see it. All this and just for me!

By the time I reached the top of the path again, I was exhausted and exhilarated. I was utterly spent and near-delirious with joy, satisfied to my bones and eager to do it again.

accusations

I'm doing it again: imagining a silent court of invisible accusers.
Always people I know, people in my life or just outside it. How they judge me!
(in my head, that is. In my head, these people judge me harshly, they criticize everything I do in the moment that I do it. In my head, that is.)
Accused, I defend myself against them.
(My self-apologia are quite eloquent while they last)
Or, sometimes, I simply endure their saying what I know to be unjust and untrue.
(Oh, how queenly I am! How patient! How humble!)
Or, sometimes--sometimes I remember that none of it has actually happened and I whisper this to God.
Lord, I am doing it again: I am imagining my silent court of invisible accusers.
I am imagining this and it has not happened.
I am putting accusations into the mouths of unguilty people.
Oh, there I go, I just did that again, and I didn't even notice.

eyelashes

There I go again, Lord, admiring my own eyelashes.
How lovely they are! Dark and long and, though I don't wish to boast, I swear they are much thicker than they were last year.
Other women apply cosmetics to their eyelashes the more beautifully to frame their jewel eyes.
I, perverse, (as always) care for my eyes so that their frame might receive all the attention I think it deserves:
...!
And just when I get to this point, to the point of imagining ardent admirers of my (very fine) eyelashes, I laugh.
I say to You, God, "I am admiring my own eyelashes. Again." And we laugh together about it.

olives

I think that hope must taste like an olive--pungent and briny, like tears or sweat or sex.
I don't think I want a sweet, candy-fluff hope. I want hope that bites back.

I haven't met hope in the form of a bird, something winged and soaring.

I used to think that "poor in spirit" was a soft way of letting rich people into heaven:
no need to be poor, or to turn away from Mammon. You can be rich, rich, rich and still slide right in.

But in the moment of off-putting surprise, under the power of bitter and salt--
as in the first taste of an olive, dearly bought, ill-afforded--
the world cracks open and life rushes in before it closes up again, and that, I think, is like hope.

hangover, with prayer

usually I make every attempt to make myself presentable: I dress appropriately (or try to). I know it takes a while, usually, with most people, for me to ease into genuine sharing, so I try to plot my time with others accordingly. I can laugh at myself to deflect concern or kindness while appearing cheerful and light.

I get to feel a little confident in my shining shell. I can do this, I think. I can be really appropriate and collected and presentable and serene. I relax my guard a little. I have reserves I can spend on greedier takers.

And then there will be an event of some kind and I will drink a little too much, and then I find, as I always find, that I have not really changed anything. Not anything really. My pretty lacquered shell cracks and all the inappropriate, the unpresentable, the scattered, uncollected, worried, and bothered comes pouring out, splashing all over the place. I stain my clothes with it, and my hands and mouth are sticky with it. It gets on other people's shoes and sprays on their shoulders. It is very disappointing.

Directly afterward, I think, there must be some other way to do this. But I don't know of such a way, and so I sit in the middle of my floor with brushes and glue and paint and lacquer and begin to mend the shell again. I can see, though I know I will forget, that there is nothing left but the cracks, that the pieces are a fiction and only the cracks and the lacquer are real. It's only ever been glue and tape and glitter and sequins. Shining shell indeed.

Why can I not do something dramatic instead? I should leave my life, change everything. I must change my life. Perhaps I can sell everything I have and give it to the poor. Perhaps I can make my home resemble a monastic cell and, through the rigors of asceticism, become something different. Perhaps I can sever all ties to all I love and, by sacrificing my affection for them thus, love them far better than I do when I am present.

I will do nothing so dramatic or creative. I will make more tea. I will put away the clean laundry. I will feed myself wholesome food. I will try to remember what humility is and is not.

spinsterhood and housekeeping as sacred work

I am a woman who lives alone and there are times, I readily admit, when I envy my partnered or otherwise cohabitating friends the privilege of the division of domestic duties. I must do everything for myself, of course. (Yes, you must read that with as much melodrama as you can muster.) There is only me to take out the trash, only me to scrub the toilets, only me to cook the meals, and to scrub the dishes when it is all over. And that on top of all the work I do to earn my keep and pay my bills. Oh, woe, heaviest woe, is me!

For a very long time, I have imagined that, if only I had someone else to care for, all my domestic chores might become sweet to do. Scouring pots and pans, bleaching the bathtub, bruising my knees to wash the floor would all be acts of loving sacrifice for my beloved. If only there were someone for whose sake I worked, then that work would be transformed into something noble, something worthy, something I could desire to do.

Instead, I am the one for whom I work. All my work is for me, for my well-being, for my happiness, and for my pleasure. For a very long time, this has felt very selfish. I am too insignificant to be such a reason or a recipient of my own care.

Just today, however, a different kind of thought occurred to me. Every day, I have endless opportunities to show myself kindness and love. There is no one else to do these chores, and so, eventually I have to do them, even if I do them badly or incompletely. After all, I only have this many plates and this many mugs; this many sheets or that many pairs of pants--eventually I must wash them as I will have to use them again. This means I can never go too long without caring for myself. Every bit of washing up, cooking, putting away, or tidying up is a reminder that I am also worthy of such care. I am learning that caring for myself in these life-affirming ways is not selfishness, and it is no small accomplishment to see this. And when I look around me and see my bed made, my refrigerator full of delicious food, the floor swept, etc., etc., I see that I am lovable, and that I am loved.

sumer is icumen in

The saxophone player is in his usual spot underneath the el tracks. I know this because so long as I have my windows open, i can hear all that he plays, and because he always sits in the same spot. He has so much energy for playing--just today he has been out for hours, his musical thoughts drifting through my windows while I write or edit.

I love listening to him play, and I just thought of a new reason for this love today: Although there are familiar phrases he repeats, often with alteration, I cannot predict the next note most of the time. I have to pay attention if I am to hear him well. To pay attention, I have to let go of the thoughts in my head and make myself open and receptive. When I listen to a fixed piece of music, even one I love, I find that I can lose my attentiveness by anticipating the next note or phrase in my head instead of focusing on the note at hand. I rush ahead of the music in my head and miss what happens as it happens. (And the same in conversations when I divide my attention between what is being said and how I will interpret it or how I will respond or what might or must come next.)

The gentleman sitting outside for hours every pleasant afternoon and evening playing his saxophone whether people stop and listen or not, filling my home all summer with the notes he chooses to play--this gentleman teaches me how to pay attention, and I am grateful for him.