dishes

I am in a season of letting the dishes pile up so I can have more time to write.

There is suddenly more art around me, and color I had missed.

I have more material because of what has fallen away,

and I am left with brain space and wonder.

The kink in my neck is gone, which may be related to the lists I was living by.

I have been to the dentist and the dog is up to date with her heartworm, but there are other things that have unraveled.

I am shaking as a practice - literally, and daily.

I look on the floor afterwards, and it is littered with supposed to’s.

Like listening to a seashell, I am curling myself around intuition.

For the first time in years, I am caught up on reading The New Yorker, which historically has been stacked in the corner with a side of overwhelm and guilt.

My kids are roaming the neighborhood without me. They are dirty and happy and feeling their bigness, and I watch from a corner of the window without disrupting their investigation.

Meanwhile, I am roaming internally. I am looking for the seed of the seed of the seed – so I can raise something new and green.

But- there is so much raging now, in my inner circle of beloveds. So much to pray for and encircle with light and hope. I get up early to do that, and crash into sleep by nine to start the circle again.

I wonder if it will settle down soon, or if our resilience will get more robust.

I am glad for the disruption of poetry as the dishes get crusty and harder to clean in the other room.