Red Cedar
More apocalypse, less angst
The sky is not falling.
Oh my. I’m processing again. And realizing. Oh. And almost losing it a little too. But I allowed myself to leave work early because I wasn’t feeling so great, and went somewhere good for me, and then walked for awhile, and took care of some things that needed taking care of. And that does feel better than wallowing.
Got the flat tire on my car fixed. Victoria this weekend. Seems like good timing to me.
One lover brought me flowers and another brought me God.
One lover brought me flowers and another brought me God; straight through from the screen into meaning, one voice meets another in a smoky subterranean bar (disappearing in fast number these rumpus-room arrangements). About travel, and fantasy and trauma and scotch we whittled down the night until the grey dawn came rapping and our sudden sobriety pulled us into that which matters. The violence of the new day, prying off the cover of night and I heard a truth there – in my heart; in that shift between dark and day, between tipsy and straight and was pinned down in a conversation that took my hand by surprise and lead me through. What stranger could provoke this in me, some madness says the rational, but the mystic says no. Intention. An appropriate juncture for leaving old things behind. Profound and still unpretentious, a whisper against the neck, a sigh for what will not be. Footsteps away. And away. And alone.
Not a girl with thin wrists.
I’ve been working out pretty steadily for the past three months or so – trying to kick myself into shape for the Marble Mountains trip at the end of August which I’d like to do without killing myself. More recently, I’ve been trying to ground myself out a bit through daily stretching and yoga first thing in the morning. As a result, not only have I lost weight (enough that my clothes don’t fit properly), but my body has changed noticeably in definition. Yesterday I was at the gym after work, on the cursed stationary bike (oh how that thing bores me – I need to get a real bike again!) and I looked down at my hands on the bars and it struck me how damned thin my wrists are suddenly.
Now, I am not a girl with thin wrists, so it’s not like I’ve gone birdlike suddenly… but I realized that if my forearms and wrists seemed that much smaller, then it stands to reason that the rest of me is probably shrinking or the muscles are lengthened and thus making me appear smaller. Make sense? It seemed weird anyhow, as I have gone through intensively in-shape periods in the past and have never noticed anything with quite that much clarity before.
I’m feeling pretty good about the prospect of this hike at the end of August, though I am a little worried about my ankle. Even now the injury reminds me often of its presence – and it’s been almost four years! I think some visits to my physiotherapist could help assuage my fears.
Besides the physical goodness, I’ve also been officially offered the national project management position and my boss has been approached by the folks in Ottawa to release me to the project. I am so hoping to be in my new role by the end of this month, I need some new focus to get me out of the work doldrums I’ve been in.
On the downside of today, I am about to make a phone call as a union rep to someone who I find deeply challenging to deal with and will probably suck as much psychic energy out of me as she possibly can. Yes, I know, lessons.
Lessons for today are patience (be nice to the crazy lady) and discipline (get the hell off Facebook and stop procrastinating on the call). *Sigh* 😉
Planting.
A sheaf of papers and 158 ways to cut them down. Bind and bale them for resurrection as feed when the fertile land goes frozen six months of the year. Scatter over soil as a weed repellant in the garden, or compost the lot for future flowers. I have no imagination for re-organizing the organic, no understanding of how wild growth can be tamped down into neat rows and planting cycles. Insistent morning glory binds memories in tight tendrils.
Perhaps the dirt beneath my fingernails will prove to be a tactile guide, to pry the words from earth and plant with care – away from vines that choke and the tangles that erode meaning between the lines. Toes deep in the muck after a late-spring rain, hands curled into tools ready to put order to the summer’s work.
(Yes, I am wretched as a poet. I know.)
