“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


everyday sunday: april 6. rain and no chocolate.

me on the temporary bridge.
i stood there watching the water rise and then scooted off.

stormy sunday.

our back yard is surrounded by other back yards, all higher than ours, and water pours from the old rock walls like waterfalls.  the water rushing down the street, pushed against the curbs, curls in the air before splashing down, and i think waterhorses, though in truth i have no idea what waterhorses are, unless you count the ones in lord of the rings.

thunder.  the rock bridge crossing the creek by my front door floods quickly, and i mistake the sound of hard falling rain for hail.  the waterhorses deepen and rise and i begin to see the creek rise also. no way can i resist stepping into it and over it.


where do you write about the weeks that tear your heart and push you to your knees in pain and love and too-much-ness?  do you find a pen and a notebook and a light in the darkness and write until your hands cry no mas no mas?  do you search for a warm spot in the sunlight, wear sunglasses against the brightness, write a sentence, stop and search the sky, write another sentence, or maybe just a word, lean back and close your eyes, give it up for right then, put it off, lean further back, put the pen down?  do you leave voice messages for yourself, swearing you'll write them down later, sighs and pauses and all, promising yourself you'll remember the way you looked off to the side when you said this, that you'll not forget your jittery heart as you said that?  do you prop the computer in your lap and just type the words, listening to the rhythm of the keys, not seeing the words as anything but letters and apostrophes, just letting them drain from your fingertips?  do you sit at a desk with the tv on and too bright lights overhead because it's what you do and where you do it, and the sound of kids and sitcoms is just white noise?  do you pay attention or do you try to not look?

seeing the story written down is hard for me.  the words never cleanse, never release.  sometimes i begin a sentence and then turn the page.  too much, too much.  this morning's storm saved me; blue legal pad in hand, ditto my favorite pen, the yowling cat driving me crazy, my knee aching - i wanted the words to tear through the paper, break on through to the other side, but it wasn't happening.  my ankle began to ache.  my hip.  my head.  the cat grew crazier, wanting outside, but not really.  i let my breakfast grow cold.  the words too.  my hand began to ache.


the news disturbs me.  the thought police have arrived, and i think to myself there is no longer any use in writing the truth, in being honest; the water is rising and the bridge we are standing on will fall.  i think i will not reach to save those who let it rise, but i know myself and i know i will.  i take soup from the freezer to let it defrost, and the cat, at last calm, falls asleep in front of the fire.  i buy a book on kindle - on sale, something to read through the rainy afternoon.  i wonder how anyone who owns a stove can complain about cooking. i wish there was chocolate in the house, and decide to head to the store as soon as i finish this post.


earlier there were birds in the rain, flying sideways, fast seeking shelter of the trees.  and then the skies opened up.  now there is thunder in the distance and the rain has slowed to almost nothing.  i see a robin on the grass across the street.  it feels like an all-clear sign.



the promise of a coming storm

baby pink blossoms, wednesday morning sky.

the palms of my hand itch with words i cannot say,
the saying aloud of wishes a jinx,
the saying aloud of truths a crime.

funny that i write it that way, that my hands speak or stay silent.



everyday sunday: march 30. nothingness and sun.

the mirror this morning showed a surprise of sunburned cheeks, yesterday's sunshine lingering behind to remind me of the sheer fabulous nothingness of the day.  sitting still in the sun equaled hot, moving to dappled shade meant sweaters needed when the wind was up.  we did both.

my neighbor calls this the strange non-blooming spring.  dogwoods are blossoming, and here and there some azaleas; pear trees are recuperating from the ice storm, leafing out again, but so many empty limbs are still scratching against the sky.  from the couch right now, i think i see baby leaves hatching on the hackberry tree, and possibly the wisteria; the pecan tree's lower limbs have nothing, but higher in the tree spring looks as if it is landing. oak trees here and there are greening up, the elms also, but not all, not everywhere.  the yard is sprouting grass and flowered weeds and should probably be mowed, but soon is soon enough.

early evening is the sound of a leaf blower, cardinals swooping past, the sun painting bright stripes down the road.  it is hard to stay inside.  i keep stepping out the open door, just standing, breathing, grateful when the leaf blowing stops and i can once again hear the birds.  they've been singing all day.


i got lost in the day today,
one of the consequences of no maps, no rules.
i was writing and then i wasn't.

it was a morning of blackberries and strawberries, olives stuffed with jalapenos, lasagna for breakfast, warm air outside the house, pierce brosnan on the television, no fire next to the sleeping cat.  as the weather warms and the sun shines down, it becomes clear that life must be lived before words can written.  there are back roads not yet explored, conversations not yet spoken, hands still to hold, thoughts to be set free.  there are silences to savor, and robins in the yard.

the camellia tree across the street, tall and full of pinkish flowers,
curves over a corner of the roof against twilight almost night,
and the cardinals begin to fade into the color of evening,
darkest of red spilling into the grasses and trees.
sounds  . . . silence . . .  the stopping of birdsong.