My sister’s apartment was being renovated: a massive ramp jutted out from the side of the building, bricks and debris sliding down. She said we could walk under the ramp to get inside, and I was wary but went along.
Looks like it might’ve been a tornado after all, so it’s good we got out of bed and took the cats in their carriers to the basement just before midnight. You show me on the map where you sprinted down the hill on your bike a few hours before winds hit the same spot. You’re gung-ho about vacuuming; it’s your day off and my comment that we live in filth made an impression. I always think of Bernadette to Lee Ann (“And she says she does not clean anymore—it just makes things more cluttered”), then feel free to stop caring.
Sunny neighborhood walk, air cool and fresh. Picking up tree branches in my path, some over an inch thick, and tossing them onto what they call the right-of-way in this town (one of my favorite Wikipedia pages lists all the names). Texts from my sisters about an averted shooting in New Orleans (sister from ramp dream is there for the weekend; poets were there for the festival last weekend). I see you’ve put our futon frame on the curb.
Reiki I on Zoom for three hours, then an hour break. Cucumber-cheddar-Triscuits-mustard snack you invented. 45 minutes left, exactly enough time to walk over the river and back. The magnolia has lost its blossoms; a moment later on the ground, a stray pink petal like a wink. Geese jab beaks in muddy riverbank. Red-winged blackbirds shriller than any woman unfairly maligned. Crossing the spearmint bridge, hello quarter moon against pure blue sky. Dollar bill flutters in the grass and I pluck it. At the mailbox, name and social security number has been exposed again.
I receive the attunements. Afterward, lying on my back with hands in position, unexpected transmission that boils down to: My guides were down the street from my childhood home all along. Surprise-cry a little. The teacher said something like this might happen, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. After class, dazed for a while, then wander into the kitchen. You’ve made a perfect salad (secret ingredient: thoroughly rinsed red onion in vinaigrette) and a garlicky flatbread that’s weird and wet but we’d still eat it again.
Dishes, cat-treat rituals. Write poem from journal, notes app, and memory while sitting on the back deck until 8:30 when it’s too dark to see, then move here to the couch.
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Six parts of the day borrowed from Bernadette Mayer’s Midwinter Day: Dreams, Morning, Noontime, Afternoon, Evening, Night.
getting gung-ho about vacuuming (ha! this says so much about so much)
I would like to receive my attunements now.
and the food–such pleasure in this.