musings

Would you like to hear a not-poem about my life? Here it is.

We have been traveling. Suddenly we are more than a week into June. Chicago is gem-like, trees and grasses all soaked through with sunlight emerald shine. This is a week of irises.

The breeze is chilled now, after a night of restless indecision, storms and stillness, lightning and window curtains whipped about, rain pelting and retreating and pelting again. I waver between taking my tea iced and hot. I am relieved to welcome the cold into this suffocating living space: I bow to it, usher it in. Thank you, breeze, for joining me at the table. Thank you for cooling my toes.

We spent a week and a half nestled among mountain ranges in a valley known since ancient times for its flowers. We grew accustomed to spotting mule deer, antelope, magpies, pheasant, even elk. Returning to the city, I have caught myself more than once looking for something alive and skittish on the horizon. I walk along the most treed streets, content myself with squirrels and sparrows. I keep appointments, make new ones, dream of high-flowing rivers and garden beds.

We do not know what comes next. We have calmed and quieted our souls.

I am: writing a dissertation. Preparing for a conference. Wondering about whether to renew our lease. Slicing onions in early afternoon. Filled with holy longings.