Friday, April 3, 2009

The body breaks.

"The body calls, yeah the body, it calls out. It whispers it first, but it ends with a shout. The body burns, yeah the body burns strong until mine is with yours, then mine will burn strong. My flesh sings out, it sings: come put me out. The body sways like the wind on a swing, a bridge through a hoop, or a lake through a ring. The body stays, and then the body moves on. And I'd really not dwell on when yours will be gone. But within the dark, there is a shine. One tiny spark, that's yours and mine".

Girl power. Girl club. Girl scout. Girl parts. Girl time.

The theme of strength has rolled over from end-of-the-week angst to something tasteful that I am going to build the foundation of my weekend upon.

Don't build your house upon the sandy land.

Best advice from my upbringing, my upheaval of self. Thanks, church. Build your house upon the rock. I am drinking the last inch of wine that the Rabbi and I drank with ease this evening. An interesting turn of events at my neighborhood haunt forced me to make a few long distance calls and a few local calls to my single women in order to record the same outrageous voicemail on all of their answering machines. We are rejoicing in the hands together, there is a God apparently. While ordering a coffee dressed head to toe in off white, my most prominent color whenever I find myself feeling hopeful, I found myself in fresh waters. Out of the pond and into the ocean. Our conversation pulled me out of the depths of myself and into plain sight of a lifestyle easily attainable with a little more growth, a little more experience, a little more wine, a little more education, a little more travel. It was refreshing.

I left feeling alive and on point (which has become a rarity these days with the stagnancy that is winter), holding tight a letter from Loco (two in ONE week, JC Loco, you blew my brains in half) only to pop into Rabbi's new sushi digs to eat a yam tempura roll with one hand while reading the published article written by one of my best friends with the other. Loco sent it in the mail, and girl, I am so glad you did. To read the work of my friends (published or non) always encourages my most natural sense of mother hen pride, and Loco, none of that innate gushing was spared over your F-bomb heavy article. I am so PROUD of you. Hours later, a phone call to JJ to encourage her in the same way that she has so encouraged me in the past couple of weeks. We fell into each other in spite of all of those provinces trying to divide us, and I hung up feeling so proud of her too. These amazing women, the "cream of the crop" as I described to my coffee and Bailey's drinking evening joiner, these women who do so much. You do so much, I continue to watch and look on with a charming sort of open-mouthed reverence: just watching, watching, watching, trying to get my fill of you two. Loco and JJ, the lesson learned? I will never have my fill. This summer will be off the chain.

And now, with so much feeling, I am going to kill my wine and crawl into my bed, psyched on what lies ahead, planned or non. No prayers tonight, just thankfulness. Come what may, I have very dear friends. Friends that weep for their mother's mortality in messy walk-in closets, friends that weep over the breaking of baby brother legs, friends that weep over being alone or being together, friends that are warm, friends that ask questions and friends that listen.

Rabbi and I sat, taking in my home as much as we can before it slip/slops through the fingers of time. I am moving on to the next quarter of life and have only optimism in my sails. Good riddance. In the interim, we have Devendra and we have Bon Iver and we have Chad and we have each other. I have said it before and I will say it one million more times: we have enough because we have each other.

One sip left for good measure.

And how, Madge.

No comments:

Post a Comment