With The Monkey being tracked out of school,
my studio time is limited.
These, however, are the good days.
7am and morning light.
12pm and vintage books-
I dusted them off and put them on the mantle.
3pm and new shoes.
He is now a Mustang.
T-ball practice starts Saturday.
6pm and shadows lengthening.
The front porch shines.
I am the proud new owner of a screen door.
11:15 as I type this
and there is a book waiting on the nightstand.
I continue to read Anais' diary
and draw certain parallels and potency from her life.
There is hot tea.
The occasional eighteen-wheeler rolling down Main Street.
The last of the night birds.
And the house sounds, settling even still.
I suppose it has settled since 1942,
always finding a new equilibrium,
a more comfortable orientation.
A more authentic stance.
I write with that rawness that only
heightens the gratitude.
That rawness which breeds a greater awareness.
I feel the shifts around and within me
as I have felt them for months now.
Part of me prays for stillness.
Part of me prays the rocking never stops.
How else would I learn the art of balance?