that’s how it goes when your head and heart
“Totally” – Tony Hoagland
are in different time zones–
you often don’t find out till tomorrow
what you felt today.
It’s 10 o’clock in the morning, Saturday, and already I’m cancelling parts of my day. Groceries can wait until tomorrow. I can push back exercising by an hour or day or week. The gray of November has settled in and it’s almost June. On my morning walk, the heavy-headed, long-legged peonies ready to bloom and burst have tipped over in the rain, a waterlogged giving up of sorts. They had planned on shining bright, standing tall, losing their pink and fuchsia minds. They too are cancelling parts of their day. I have a small heater next to me chugging along doing it’s very best – turning from side to side the way royalty might wave from the car at the passing crowd. The dog has draped his sleek and weighty head and big front paws across my lap. I read some poems that made me chuckle and nod. I finished a book from an author I feel I’ve gotten to know. I’m a little intoxicated by that type of reach. He’s dead, cancer – and here I am, reading his poems, feeling like I’ve uncovered some uncomfortable truths – thankful that they exist. Thankful that all art exists.
For all of yesterday’s rancor, this morning I’m practicing gratitude. I’m in awe of our ability to connect to songs and people and words and the dog snoring on our lap and the drunken peonies on the front lawn. This morning I’m reaching and stretching and writing. It feels decadent and slightly irresponsible and all too good to luxuriate. I’m walking through someone else’s thoughts. I’m thinking about how the lines and words they wrestled and wrangled years ago have found their way in to my living room – giving me a slightly better handle on why any of this matters.