Naps in the sun.

It was so hard to read.  The sun was reflecting on my pages.  But if I changed angles, it would have been right in my eyes.  It was one of the first truly warm and beautiful weekends Seattle had seen in a while.  The week had been a blur of scanning in photographs, coordinating family guests, and consoling my Mom.  Not to mention just barely beginning to grieve for my Dad.  I may never have the framework for grief, but I do know it was oto early at that point to even know what I was feeling.

I went out on Brad's balcony and sat back in one of our anti-gravity chairs.  A marketing gimmick, for sure.  It does not make me feel weightless.  It does, however, deploy my weight in a even way that feels good from neck to heels.  The weight of the prior week helped.

I couldn't read any more.  My eyes were crossing themselves and the words all blurred on the page.  I wrapped my sweater around my head, to avoid sun burn.  And I slept. 

Seattle does not always make it conducive to sleep in the sunshine.  There is usually a breeze that chills the sunniest of days.  It's a rare week in August that you can really bask and feel comfortable.

I was in heaven.  Brad was practicing saxaphone in his place and I was sleeping.

One of the best naps of my life.

Stretching

Last night, during one of our regular chats, my Mom told me that she stretched recently, upon waking.  And this was news.  It was an observation on a simple, natural, automatic physiological response to being still for an extended period of time.  Babies stretch.  Animals stretch.  I find myself throwing my arms up in the air and arching my back several times a day.

She had not stretched in years. 

Stretches should come up from our cores like yawns - separating vertebrae and ribs and pulling our muscles against our bones.  They should fill us with air and fresh blood.  I go to classes just to sweat and stretch - when you really think about my hot yoga routine.

Her exhaustion has been so great for so long - her body was not finding that moment to stretch when she woke up.  She was always on call and seeing what my Dad needed.  She was so tired.  She didn't stretch.

And now she's stretching.

All this talk makes you want to lift your arms in the air and stand on your tippy toes, doesn't it?  It reminds me how powerful stretching really is. 

Lazy Lust

Sweet strings flutter in the background,

Serenading my tired, aching body,

One too many late nights and naughty toddys,

I’m tucked into my couch with almond milk hot cocoa,

And a book.

My eyes glaze over as the neighbor upstairs makes a repetitive tapping sound,

Knocking on a wall,

Or bouncing a ball,

Or dancing slowly.

Knock.  Knock.  Knock.

The words on the page cease to have meaning,

My eyeballs trace the words,

But the story stopped with the sounds.

I load the dryer,

Hoping white noise drowns my irritability.

I’m fueled by my desire to relax,

A soft adrenaline trickles through me,

With just enough prickling motivation to do something.

I want to feel good and alive, for a moment.

I reach up into one of the 4 boxes at the top of my closet.

This one is heavy, weighed down by hefty devices.

Left to my own devices, I grab my magic wand.

Since my bedding is stripped, I take the wand back over to the couch. 

Plug it in the closest outlet,

And hold the large ball end over my yoga pants,

Distractedly continuing to read,

Waiting for my body to react and swell.

My brain is lethargic and somewhere between lazy and prudish this evening.

My thoughts flicker with fleeting fantasy,

Quickly returning to the simple reality.

The inside of my thighs going numb from the vibration,

My clit beginning to respond.

Eyes closed and the first wave starts.

But I can’t quite peak. 

It’s a rolling wave, trying to break, trying to crash.

I’m caught up in the roll, never quite sure when I’m done.

I wonder if my neighbors upstairs can hear the wand,

Reverberating between my thighs,

Beneath my sighs.

I think about the faces I make as I start to peak again,

These sloth orgasms,

Subtle rushes under my skin,

Depleting my endorphins.

These are lazy and relaxing and boring and wonderful.

Is that my last one?

I pick up the book again, get two paragraphs read,

And I press the on switch again,

Rising off the last wave,

Moaning over Bach in the background.

Sighing myself into a stupor.

I notice the sounds upstairs have stopped.

Which life do you choose?

When I was little, I dreamed of this life where I read books and listened to jazz and classical music and ate fresh homemade food and danced in the dessert and kissed passionately and saw shooting stars and wrote poetry and spent long weekends with friends drinking wine and traveled and lived in the city and went on long walks and practiced yoga and took the bus and laughed with ease.

But these things all seemed slightly out of reach.  It was easier to just watch TV and gossip about celebrities and shop at the mall.

My commute this morning

I'm not sure the teal in my socks,
Blends with the baby blue on my shirt.
My hair looks freshly slept on.
And I am late for the trolley.

It's dinging and I'm a block away,
Knowing that I can't run in these boots,
I submit to walking.
Voices in my head talking,

Telling me about the day ahead,
Recalling bits of dreams,
Laughing at his sleep talking,
Catching my reflection in windows.

I stop for a kombucha,
That refreshing fermented fad.
Which I swear I was drinking before you. 
Or that hipster, foodie cashier.

I don't listen to music these days,
To make space for my own inner monologue,
And I started writing this.
Not quite a poem.  Not quite a journal entry.

I'm walking under construction workers,
Around ladders,
Watching other commuters,
Holding my kombucha bottle that looks like a beer bottle.

Do I look like a train wreck,
Slamming a beer on my way to work?
I face the label out,
Just in case.

I probably look more like a self-entitled, young, urban, professional,
Who thinks spending too much money on fermented tea,
Somehow will make my life longer,
Happier and healthier.

Oh yeah.  That's probably exactly what I look like.

I toss the kombucha bottle into the recycyling.
It's only the 2nd glass bottle this morning.
It clunks loudly on the other bottle.
Startling the feeding pigeons.

They scurry and fly away,
One caught in this moment of decision,
Treading air and not sure where to go.
Ruffled feathers right in my face.

I'm taken aback for a moment,
Stunned in a hitchcockian transition,
Between my inner monologue,
And a startled bird.

The look on my face is caught by another pedestrian.
He smiles.
I'm ridiculous.

No words.

Words cannot describe it.
So I'm gonna let it be.
Let it sit without definition.
Let it unrefine itself.
Let it become its own mystery.
Let it breathe.
Without words.
It sits quietly.
Oh, so content.

I'm just a delicate flower.

Please peel back my petals slowly,

Let each one flutter to the ground,

In sync with my fluttering knees.

Drink my sap in tiny sips, please,

With tender ease,

Slurp me up.

Fill your cup.

With my sweet nectar.

I'm just a delicate flower.