the spaces between

Summer is a special time to be aware.

A walk through a city park at the end of the day was the inspiration for this piece — another truth from nature about the beautiful shapes relationships can take.

like a ribbon unraveling

swirling overhead with a flourish

they write to me in the sky

what is the message? the meaning?

they disband and then land

separate, independent touch downs 

quiet, barely perceptible movements

then again and at once

they soar wings tip to tip

and by the spaces they keep between them

a beautiful pattern is placed in the present

solids against a changing sky

a few clouds, shades of blue and grey

purples, and the orange hues of

endless sunrises and sunsets

in the background or the foreground

depending on how you look at it —

present in different ways at different times

but always —

birds of a feather.

open doors

Keeping doors open has always seemed to me to be a good thing to do —

Seemed to be about possibilities and options and —

And why not be open to —

What could be?

But then again —

What could walk through that door you left open might end up to be —

Not so good for you. 

Ya see where I’m goin with this?

It’s all about context — or should I say —

Mindfulness — or maybe controlled access.

Or not.

Oh, for the love of god — I’m not sure what the hell I’m trying to say here.

What I do know is that last Saturday night —

While my 20-year-old nephew was sound asleep —

Alone in the house —

The sliding glass door was open.

And he woke up to intruders  helping themselves to his family’s jewelry, stereos and computers.

They left without harming him, thank God.  But it made me think harder about the concept of leaving doors open as it relates to taking responsibility for yourself in life. 

The Saturday night intruders, you see, were no strangers to the house.  They were uninvited guests at a party the night before.  Came in with someone else —

Maybe twice removed from the original guest list —

And allowed to stay because —- well, maybe it won’t hurt — after all, isn’t it good to be —

Open?

Hey, I’ve done it.  Do it —

All the time.  Call it liberal-benefit-of-the-doubt-thinking, over-idealistic —

Or just plain stupid —

But I’ve always been more  inclined to make the circle bigger, reserve judgment, remain — well, yes —

Open.

And I’ve been lucky. 

Sure I’ve had things taken from me.  And I’ve had to ask people to leave — or leave myself on occasion.  But this episode made me think harder about the risks of exposure.  And the choices I make that might indirectly put myself and others in avoidable pain. 

I’m not sayin’ I’m ready to put a guard outside my door 24/7.

But I am definitely looking harder at levels of access and when it’s appropriate to deny access altogether. 

And this is a good thing — for me.

bunny trail

 

My patio is tucked in the elbow of the plaza, just three giant steps from the fountains that roar above the sound of 94.  

It’s a vortex, really, for anything unwanted in the universe.  

A magnet for whatever the wind picks up —

Or people above drop —

Or shed.

White cottony masses clinging to chair legs and bicycle spokes.  Dried seeds lodging under carefully placed rock collections.  Dirt and dust that’ll take any surface it can.

Petals.  Leaves.  Butts —

An endless supply of — gag — fake flower pieces.

And thanks to the baby bunny who is perhaps a little shy about doing his duty in front of the other urban wild life —

Handfuls of teeny tiny pellets — dusty little powser colonies —

Achoo.

meet yourself

There are times in life —

When aspects of your own identity are revealed to you in ways that —

Make you meet yourself and think, “yes” — by God —

This is me.

This part actually fits, feels right, makes sense — and there’s no need to keep trying on different sizes, styles or colors — well, uh, maybe just for kicks —

Occasionally.  

For amusement or a needed change of pace —

In a visit-to-a-foreign-land kind of way. 

But once you know yourself — know where you belong —

There’s really no other way —

To be.

I met myself today around Isles.   Not running, but walking. 

I am —

Therefore I walk.  

I walk. 

I walk. 

And I listen and look.   Sniff and stretch.  Contemplate —

How all the pieces fit together.

The small dog ahead of me just cocked his right ear. 

The man’s hemline is at the water line — his son is in up to his waist. 

Oh —  so that’s the house they bought.  Yes, I can see that.

Little floaty white things falling in the sunlight.  Emerging from behind the berm, a family of four.   They pause —

And I mentally frame them up —

Take the shot.

Lovely.

Nice to meet —

me.

dance with me

Metaphorically —

Literally —

Or virtually —

“Dance with me” is easily my favorite expression of life.

And joyfully, there are so many many ways to dance. 

So many people to dance with —

And so many steps yet to be experienced.

The spontaneous dance — without hesitation — tops the list for me.  But practiced moves — with a willing skillful partner — are not to be overlooked in the scheme of things —

And in fact, I’ve found them essential — like a hub in the spokes of spontaneity leading to expanding creativity.

Oh, how many wonderful things in this world start with a dance.

And the first dance —

Is there anything more defining? 

In any relationship?

What will I learn?  Feel?  Give?  Receive? 

Who else will be influenced?  Drawn in?  Touched?

Will there be another?

“Dance with me” is always an invitation. 

A question that must be asked and answered.   

And the response is never a forgone conclusion. 

The acceptance, a gift —

From the other —

And above.

yellow fender

More often than not this time of year I find myself driving at the speed of —

The person pedaling in front of me.

Take last night, for instance.

I pull out of the parking lot at Barbette’s in Uptown, intending to take my usual route home on Irving when a yellow fender flies out of the alley in front me.

Yellow fender pumps furiously, but it’s not enough to get me above 15 mph. 

Irving — a one-way with cars lining both sides of the street — also has a stop sign every block.

Each time I stop — and look both ways — I realize the parade of cars behind me is getting longer.

I’m feeeeeling anxious now. 

Should I try to pass? 

Maybe —- no —- ok, perhaps —- no way.

I grip the wheel tighter and notice that a few cars in the line-up have bailed, leaving a snippy little moped nosing my fender.  

Sensing his growing impatience at the next stop sign, I’m contemplating a bold move in my head —

When he shoots around me, picks up speed and leaves yellow fender and me in the sunset.

I’m breathing easier now as we approach my favorite house in the 1900 block — which just happens to be —

For sale — and —

The same shade of yellow as the fender I’ve grown extremely fond of during the last 10 minutes or so.

This symmetry in color both delights and calms me.

And I can’t help wondering — am I more than just a little –

Eccentric?

return of the romper

Not in my lifetime —

I’d a been willing to bet —

Would this article of  clothing make a comeback. 

But “OMG,” I almost screamed when I spotted them in NYC a coupla weeks ago, “the romper has returned!”

The first romper I owned I made — bought a pattern and fabric and sewed the thing myself —

In our sewing room.

In 1977 I made a day-after-prom-brunch romper — grass green cotton with tiny white polka dots and three dainty little ties across the bodice.

This little number musta been “hot” back then — the shorts barely covered my 12th grade buns and the ties were functional as well as decorative, meaning the entire front was open —

Except where it was lashed together in three places across my chest.

Needless to say, it was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.   I couldn’t bend over, sit down, or reach for the butter without it shifting away from things that I typically wanted covered —

It was — as we said back then — “quite revealing.”

Alas, I coulda fared much better with the version of the romper my mother made famous —

The strapless terry cloth with the elastic above the bustline and at the waistline.  One piece and it followed your every move —

She owned them in all the colors of sherbet —

Lime, orange, yellow —

And a couple more I can’t remember.

Wonder if she’ll be tempted to bring ‘em back. 

I think I just might —

Many things in life are better the second time around and the romper may be one of them.

the circle

The canopy over the freshly dug grave isn’t nearly big enough to keep all of us dry.

So we surround it on all sides with umbrellas and try to keep from poking each other’s eyes out as we say our final prayers — and goodbyes.

I am literally standing on Grandma Trudi’s grave and thinking of one of her favorite quips — the one about shivering and someone or something running across your grave.   A mouse?

She might have a chuckle over this —

If she wasn’t so sad.

A little over a year ago we brought her here to rest beside grandpa.  Today the ground opposite him is open for their youngest son.

Their baby. 

I am thinking about the months and days and moments of grace leading up to this gathering when I extend my hand to take the rose my cousin offers. 

Yellow — she  said the day before —

For friendship, peace and joy.

I bow my head and bury my nose in the rich fragrance that seems more profound in the pouring rain.  When I lift my eyes, I watch her place the last few dots of yellow to close the huge arc she’s been making—

Erasing the beginning —

And the ending —

With this beautiful symbol of eternity —

This ginormous circle of people that says it all.

The only thing that really matters in life are your relationships to other people.

nowhere to run

It’s true — you can’t run away from your problems. 

I know this because every time I take off running, I find a million little things wrong. 

Problems I didn’t even know I had —

Until I started running.

My keys are making a clanking sound.  An extremely irritating sound — one that  can be heard over my iPod. 

And my god, my sock is slipping.  Now I can feel my shoe rubbing against the spot where my sock should be.  Ughhh.

Why oh why can they not make a sports bra that actually works?   This is cruel. 

Inhuman.

It may even be biologically justifiable for me to quit right now and never bounce another mile.  I mean, do you think it’s a coincidence that most of the women running by me have figures that are closer to men’s than —

Mine?

Ok, now I’m whining.  I know.

But still —

The new arm band for my nano is completely stable — jiggle resistant.

There’s just gotta be a better mouse trap — er — bra strap.

revived

It was 85 and humid in Minneapolis yesterday.

Outside sipping wine with a friend — back up against a stranger and right shoulder inches from the passing cars and buses — I was delighted to feel what I have not felt for so many, many —

Many months —

Alive.

The irregularity and unpredictability of the contents on the corner of Irving and Lake. 

The murmurs and blurts. 

Sirens and skirts. 

Bare legs and boots. 

Tattoos and bikes. 

Glasses clinking.  Doors and blouses opening. 

Ideas spilling over.  The unjamming of thoughts and feelings.

Ahhhhh —

Revived.