My head is tired of thinking. It really wants to just sink into some beautiful dandelion fluff and float off on the first breeze. I am longing for art, beauty, substance, soul. I can only stand to think strategy, planning, to-do and not-to-do lists for so long before the sweet child in me rises up and says, “But what about me?”
How I love that child. It hurts me to have her sitting in a corner, face to the wall, while “Mommy” works. It feels wrong. Everything on my desk came from her. I ask, and she gives me what I want without question. She knows nothing about finances and planning and stuff. She is innocent of all that.
I wish I knew what would make her happy right now, in this moment. I know she loves words and outdoor games. I know she loves beautiful shiny things—she is like a pretty bird that way. She wants to pluck up the shiny thing and play with it. I know she loves drowsy naps, and she loves to laugh although I sometimes give her little opportunity to do so. I can be such a bitch that way.
Sometimes she will choose a letter and generate fun words to string together. Sometimes she even wants them in all caps.
PLEASE, PLEASURE, PLAYFUL, PINK, PRETTY, PLANTING, PLANTS, PAIN, PLENTY, PAST, PURPOSE, PAINT, PURPLE, POTS, PANS, PLUNK, PLINK . . .
Sometimes it is a single phrase that begins the game.
Cool, blue pool at its base,
a ring of green pine,
a soft place, a grace,
a knowing that all who come
and sip from these waters
will be filled.
Blue sky above, peace within.
Sometimes the phrase must be spun around.
Clouds pull into
dark centers and
stir and move and roll
The I Ching of the Creative.
One must come. Another go.
They belong together.
Sometimes my dear sweet girl likes to move. Her dance is purposeful. To feel each limb, each digit, to let the breath come in, go out, come in again. And most importantly to notice. Life.