I like swimming in the sea.
I like to go on beyond the white breakers,
where a man can still be free.
Or a woman if you are one.
I like swimming in the sea.”
I whisper it to the good mornings, almost every day. Some days you don’t have to whisper it much to not forget, because the baby is extra gurgly, your husband whistles to these glowing good mornings, the kids help with breakfast, and the sun rises over the trees with the reddish glow of promise. The chickens squawk, the cat mews, and the dogs jump over the fading moon. The sun rises, the moon sets, and sheds with it – doubts and darkness. I swallow back the rising nausea and uncertainty; breathe the day into being. Believing. How many times until it sinks in.
I get swallowed by the enormity, of these details and hard decisions, and the way it often seems overwhelming in general, and in the world. We now have 25 chickens. Lucy keeps jumping the fence, out of sheer fascination with these eight new chickens. We offer her chicken dog food instead and I remember I have a contract with the dog food brand so I can’t wrinkle the bag. There are camera glares and sun glares, and even the two days of rain these days seems like an eternity. Every day is still in the finger trap game – constricting and contracting and opening wider than ever before. Full of brightness and possibility. Drudgery days, but blinking, gasping weeks. And each day containing a million points of beauty, over every 100 frustrations. Stop and breathe. Walk away, forget the messy details, and count every tiny caterpillar on every milkweed leaf. One day, any day, they’ll start to change. And then fly away, so high it catches your breath.
Every day, every hour, there’s a choice. I set my brain on autopilot to look for songs and signs and solutions. I can live with gurgling babies, coming and going kids, and jumping dogs. Our brains do great underground work. They scan every song, every situation, and every whisper and whistle to the cows and dogs jumping over the fading moons. To find the deeper meanings and connections; obstacles and solutions, lit against the glowing, growing sun. There’s a push and pull, and a desire and need to walk away, to come back with more clarity. I’m fascinated by it all.
It’s how I settle fights, even before they happen. It’s how I do most of my work; how I write these posts. I never know what I mean to say until I start saying it, and then it grows horns and takes on brand new dimensions, obstacles, and answers. Every week and every day, it’s sort of a dance. Of whispers and whistles and also innuendos. Of obstacles and frustrations and solutions. All of these answers you need for the day. Simple answers to complex questions, if you break it down.
I never know what I’ll say until I say it. The other morning I woke up with a sinus headache on a dark and dreary morning, plus a deep inability to spring out of bed. I wiped sleep and dreams from my eyes, examined my tired face in the mirror, and then walked downstairs to face the morning craziness. The baby was eating, Des was eating, and Cassidy was washing dishes. I had plenty to do and plenty (in my head) to be miffed about, disappointed about, nervous about, or just plain unpleasant about. Instead, I wrapped my body around Cassidy’s dish-washing back and just said, “I have a really beautiful family.” “Yes.” He said. “Yes, you do.” And that was the only thing that mattered, and the only thing that ever really matters. I know how fortunate I am to be healthy and mobile, and working. I know how astronomically lucky I am to have a healthy family.
Suffering, and the threat of it, looms. I’m no stranger to it, or to its threats, empty or fulfilled. Trauma and tragedy; real and imagined. So, you have to grab on to what you can grab on to – whether it can easily be a narrow or wide miss. Small and fluttery, or delicious and doughy. Extra handsome and edgy, and soft in all of the grabbable places. No matter your target, just reach.
I like driving in my car.
I roll the top down, sometimes I travel quite far.
Drive to the ocean, and stare up at the stars.
I like driving in my car.”
I went through my whole birthing playlist! I’m starting a new one, based on themes/feelings of the week, or what the Radio Gods are telling me. “Beautiful World” is #3 on my new playlist.