The rain pings the window to my left and the house rests. There are so many things to do. The contrast of the stillness, the silence hums a lovely tune to the melody of falling rain streaking jagged rivulets against the backdrop of a reliable, perpetual drumbeat toiling a rhythm on the walls of my home: “do this now! and that! and!” Surreal.
Schools shut down yesterday and stayed down. The slightest bit of icy rain and all is quiet. I’ve loads of time to do. Or not do. And a weekend coming up on me with my children. And. Go. Go. Go. Soccer season soon. Essays and. Professors who won’t let me end a sentence in and, even if a period lands. It’s. Life.
I sat in the quiet this morning and perused the headlines. It’s unavoidable. I had mail to check and there was the glaring news of the missionary in Haiti. The woman with the scarlett F on her chest. Take your pick. She’s probably Fundie. Or Flawed. Or Failed. Or Foreclosed. And she’s definitely Foolhardy. According to the news, that is. I sat there shaking my head. So much for human. Why is it sticking in my mind? Do I feel the F’s on my chest too heavily this morning? It’s not like I went to Haiti and absconded with children for their own good. Maybe it’s not a good idea to psychoanalyze every damn thing, eh?
Let things rest.
Where does this post go, then? Where do any of us go with the contrasting forces pulling on our lives and asking for equal time or, often, domination? Stay. Go. Rest. Flow. Work. Plan. Balance. It. All. Out. And.
Oh let’s not forget to add: Start over. Learn to trust again. (what? whom? life? them?) Stay serene. Find the simple joys. Grin at lost writings and hope they rise from the grave with a hallelujah on Saturday. (Nevermind the dead bodies in the crypt over there whispering of lost loves.)
Wait. That’s supposed to happen on Sunday.
It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person can eek by with a squeak and a scheme and come out smelling like roses in spite of the less than stellar history and another can concern herself most of her life with taking care and still land in a pile of um, yes. Note to reader: Don’t be misled, I’m grinning. It makes for an interesting read. It depends on your level of compassion. It begs you to ask what you reveal by what you don’t. And then it has no answer that can truly be relied upon because the story changes as soon as the press groans.
Ever just feel cryptic? Like life is rigged? And the poem refuses to spill because you’ve got too much log-jammed up inside to begin to do anything but spew.
But life. Somewhere between the rigged gigs and the skewed headlines is a pinging on the glass, rhythmic falling down a streak of sound and the resurging gurgling call of singing back there behind the magnolia, a small sparrow covering us all up in an accidental grace, painting timeless refusals of shame and colors alive revealing face no story can hide. Nothing rigged. Nothing faked. Nothing surreal. Just the melody unrestrained and calling out the courage to make a go of it again, whether it looks good in the long run or not, whether it ends happily or not, whether it ascends into heaven or rots. All from a sparrow oblivious.