Posts Tagged ‘soliloquies’

I love life!

The wind blows the curtains aside at every window.

You can’t keep stuff under wraps, in the box, off the breeze.

Out, out, out! It’s all getting out

Whippy, wily feathered things fly from their cage doors at the first opportunity. Glittery, golden, gorgeous things keep breaking out of their corrals.

You can’t keep the goat from crossing the troll bridge, the cat off the counter and the lid on the pot when steaming the vegetables. It bounces, in place. You can’t even keep the potatoes from sprouting in the cupboard.

Light shines, kittens sleep on each other, water rises over the dam, things fly away, plants sprout.

Take beauty, it streams from every street corner — statues, trees, pets, lamp posts, signs, flowers, girls — the beautiful stuff just won’t stop popping out at the intersections.

And we keep popping out too, from various and curious disasters.

Potential — it smiles from the men at the bottom of the piles.

Hope sprouts from the misses in their little black dresses.

All our best commodities spring from our worst oddities.

Bravery leaps from fear.

Belief rises within every outburst of doubt.

A snatch of love pops up to overwhelm every living scrap of hate.

In every conversation lurks a friendship, or a partnership or a marriage.

Nothing stays down for long!

What’s next?

I can hardly wait!


Life is a team, full of sound and social flurry — signifying everything.

For it is just exactly how it seems; we live and move and have our being within the team.

We are birthed into the pod of community, spawned in the thundering herd of family, sealed, stamped, delivered to society — and run over by sociality.

Alone is a fiction.

There is no being alone. We are all handed off and handed on and handed down.

Poverty is a team, wealth too, likewise demolition and construction, bee colonies, business office staffs; groves, fish; study groups, families and migratory birds.

We fly in formation, collaborate in clusters, strategize, fight, make-up and love coupled.

We batch, bunch, bundle; flock, school, swarm; show off and riot in unison.

Think Facebook, smart phones, Starbucks. Think the greasey-spoon, the local cafe. Think sports, school, church, family.

We ache to connect, meet, exchange, belong, collaborate, text, be friends, be family, Leggo together. Even the most independent of us, at times, comes up for social air — the check up, the check in, the debrief.

Life is fickle with its affections, its endearments, its affirmations, and maybe, just maybe, we get the amount of love we need — and maybe we don’t.

But either way, we know we are a team when there is that lonely, lopsided, lumpy, lurking, laughing longing for more of each other, for closer, for belonging, for being known.

And in those lonely moments of not wanting anymore alone — after we have been fired or told it’s over or told we didn’t make the team or told we have cancer — then we know how much we still need each other.

And when we can’t — be included, take a position, play, contribute — when life knocks us down, adds us up and tosses us out, then we are still not done.

Then we can yet cheer, for someone else, and so and thus, still be on the team.

Time out?

It’s just a stop along the way before teaming back up.

Of all the desultory tenderness of life to love, the household intimacies stand out.

Those happy sprayings, scrubbings and rinsings, those putter-headed hums and dumbed-down calms that come within the circular motions of the bummed, do-and-be-done domestic particularities — the dirty dishes, tubs of laundry, vacuuming, dusting, the toilets — chorish and boorish as they be, they rank, crank and bank sweet, summed satisfaction.

These make up the warp, woof and womp of wondrous, wellish world.

Cleaning is such a lovely craft.

The winkling out of the personal particular with sponge or rag, the wiping, staging and preserving of our stuff, and the tossing out and keeping in — this is the good life.

Life is a sorting, a chucking, a washing and a storing business. We hunker down, do our own work, make our own domestic map, live as we choose.

I love it.

I’m not for maids or house keepers, or yard guys either. I am my own standard of order, I vibrate to my own cleaning chord. I live as I choose on my own steamed-cleaned carpet, mown lawn, within my own weeded flower garden, my own mucked out lily pond, my own potted patio, in the cubicles of my own closet organizer, in my own self-painted bedroom.

And I wish to keep it this way. I will do my own household tasks, live close to my own humanity, make my own bed, clean my own toilet, go through my own drawers, say my own household prayers, wash my own dishes, mow my own yard, shave my own face, take out my own trash.

It’s sanity, this happy, safe, soothing seeing too oneself.

It isn’t humbling; it’s intimate.

Someone once said to me, “It’s the little things that drive you crazy!”

It’s not.

It’s the little things that drive you sane — pills, pats and pets.

All praise for what is small: dollops and gobs and dabs, the edges of pie crusts, chocolate shavings.

Hail micro-sacredness of life, tiny flotsam and mini-jetsam — veins, mists, creeks, fogs.

Is it not life’s micro-detail, womp and woof of wondrous world, that moves us to gratitude?

Drops, pinches, dashes, rain, cinnamon, lotion; fermions, flounces, hadrons, hats, bosons, bacon bits, antiquarks — there is a breath-taking thereness in the smallest things.

And then at last there is the weight and force of slivered, severed time.

The massive power of one, tiny, single “was.”

The mighty microsity of one “will be.”

And the astonishing force of this quickly, quarky, snarky second’s “is.”

I clearly remember him, and later her, looking at me and saying, “I just want to be normal.”

The sorry soul, wasted, sobs for sanity.

Traumatized longs to just get back to normal — that steamy, soapy tub we ache to soak our grubby souls in once again.

Rub-a-dub-dub-ten-kids-in-a-tub — so many choices, so much bad grub.

Sordid chemistry, heart-breaking abandonments, hidden betrayals, personal illegalities, corporate illicities, national infamies — getting back to safe, to that boring, flat-road scenery we love to drive home through is so, so, so fine!

A warm bed, no nightmares, no hangover, the same wife, no jail time, eight hours of sleep, a Chai tea latte, hot oatmeal, school lunches, the cat on the couch beside us as we watch TV,  the morning news about another shooting in a mall or airport — normal is a speeding target swerving.

But that doesn’t make it of any less amazing.

Sane, sober and safe will always be the same kind of good. Gang-banging, bullying, doping, betraying, benumbing, or firing hot bullets into other people is not good or even remotely any kind of good-bad.

It’s good to get up everyday, go to work, come home to the same place at night, sleep with the same person, eat good food, not drink too much, to hope, choose, speed, swerve, and hang on to all the normal we can get — smashed down, shaken together and running out of our own taps.

Normal; it’s good.