My husband likes to joke. I usually get his jokes, so it works out great for everyone. In this poem my husband created, Steve makes a seemingly simple interaction with a neighbor as more than what it is at surface level. During the summer, our neighbor shares his garden-spun tomatoes with us. This act of giving has become a custom that Steve and I both appreciate. In the following poem Steve describes it with a different brush:
He flirts with her
Over the fence.
Usually with a tomato
Or his octogenarian common sense.
I tease that
He’s her boy friend.
She blushes and spouts
“Oh, I would never even pretend.”
“Don’t worry my love,
about a single thing.”
“As you can see,
I wear your magic ring!”
Oh God, thank you
For this love of my life.
I can rest assured
No one will ever steal my wife.
For movies which move me
For melodrama which makes me who I am
For musing which allows me to process after bouts of melodrama
For walking outside
For the change of seasons
For unpreparedness, the only state I seem to exist in
For my husband, my mom
For good conversations, and attempts to make sense of confusion, inside and out
So as I hop around on my newly fixed MacBook Air, I enjoy reading old documents, even if they’re sometimes painful to remember that point in time. It’s a Catch 22 type of situation in that I have the documents (yay!) but they are written in difficult times (ugh). So I wonder how to somehow moderate this imbalance, and writing these lines, at this time, somehow helps to assuage past pains.
I have really solid support structures, though they were wildly rocked at their base this summer. When I think of this summer, most of it, at least; all that comes to mind is a string of expletives that hurl from my mouth in anger, and disbelief. I have no good words to describe my state of mind. And foul words seem to make me handle the memory of that time with more grit. Like I’m spitting back in the face of that relentless confusion.
I hadn’t had a breakdown that bad since 2003, and in 2003, I went into the hospital for it. This time: no hospital. Looking back, it was not a bad decision. It made sense at the time. But, summer of ’16: #@$%^
Now, the fires of spontaneity, the fever-like urge to compete, complete, carry on; all of this fuels my actions.
*Picture credit to: free google images
getting going seems to be the secret. once the spirit of the mood is active, then I’m more positively inclined to do, to move.
if I lay back down, then I am done.
I may not interact with society until late in the morning.
having no boundaries on my time does not imply happiness and freedom. instead, the loose, haphazard manner in which I find myself is fully depressing.
so, my Garmin watch actually buzzes on my wrist, to “Move”. it gives me daily step goals. I love it. my husband and I, both Garmin users, are infected with the pursuit of 20,000 step days. admittedly, we are both just as happy to achieve 10,000 steps in a day.
but lower than that, and I feel like I could be a sloth. (which actually, would not be entirely a bad thing, if looked at in a certain way). at any rate, my self-hatred and guilt rules me.
so, heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to stepping I go!
*Picture taken by author (me) at the Hennepin Canal, in Illinois
Under the rock, I cannot fathom more. I don’t think I deserve more? I wallow in my blindness. Much time passes in this paralyzed state. Suddenly a couple neurons connect with alacrity. I release myself from the weight of the rock. I see all the colors in my lover’s eyes.
I got 19,000 steps in today. About 8.8 miles. I revel in getting outside and exercising. I’m boxing, too, which blows off much pent up frustration. I’m lifting weights, just for the arms. Finally, I stretch at the end of the workout, which is sheer bliss.
I fell off whatever wagon I had been on, and just habituated in a sort of personal waste land.
Now I’m back, with a vengeance.
My next goal is to return to writing.
I really missed this community!
Everything really askew
Unlike abject normalcy
Never maneuvered into the easy
Always discombobulated at the difficult
Maybe someone would find my life easy
But I contend that that someone will never be me!
I think about a bridge
And the gaps between the boards making it
I think about the give of the bridge
This old-fashioned crickety image I have
Harbors in me a resilience
Because I know that I need the old, forgiving, and yes, even
Dangerous bridge to make my journey right
It fits me well—the spaces.
I know I could fall
Sometimes I don’t look, though;
I know this bridge well.
I accept its existence as it leans into mine.