Monday, I saw a Western Tanager, which is the Lady Gaga of songbirds. So showy- yellow and crimson and black and big, like a parrot. I feel like its that big! Plus, I’ve only only ever seen them in May, and only in some years. The year I changed my name, the year I had my son, this year.
What’s going to happen this year?
Monday, when I started writing this, I was at the end of my twice monthly 48 hour marathon with my lover, the non-parenting weekends we get to have together. These weekends leave me exhausted, happy, lonely for him, lonely for time by myself. If I’m lucky, I have a slow Monday, and can right my insides by righting my outsides- sweep every inch of the house, fold laundry, Netflix, cooking… And all the while, I’m like a raccoon with shiny objects, flashback memories of the weekend. I am washing these memories in the stream of my mind over and over- the conversation about parenting on Friday night, the impromptu dance party for two in my living room after. Looking at a David Hockney in a gallery on Saturday, and laughing so hard while watching the movie about Howard Stern on Saturday night that I started making those hissing Scooby Doo sounds and couldn’t stop. The mind-blowing sex. Seriously. (Man, it’s hard to write that. Even though I’ve done it before. Why? I know that the Madonna/whore thing is a cage meant to silence that power and that life force that comes from pleasure. I know that. I can’t do my work without access to pleasure. And yet, I have a life that requires me to be a “respected professional woman.” Fuck. Yes, fuck.)
Anyway. All that happens. Plus the talk about faith, and where we are, which is honest and a little hard and honest. I take that one out and wash it a few times, set it next to the dancing and the laughing and the loving and look at what is. This is what is, now. It is real and I have come to value what is more than what isn’t.