how this tumbleweed finds her brakes

Nora is practicing her letters.
In virtual school.

Sometimes it is smooth as the chocolate silk pie I used to make with my Grandmother.
Sometimes it is torturous like the pitchfork my father accidentally put through his brand new loafers as a child. (My Grandma was not pleased with this.)

Repetition. I get is as a teaching tool. I really do.

But damn this way of practicing the damn letter “A” over and over and over again. Leaving it and returning again. Day by day. Page by page.

Nora collapses chest on table. She holds her forehead in her hands. She rolls her pencil across the table. “I don’t WANT to do it anymore!” she deflate whines.

Me either, kid. Me either.

But A is where you’re at.
Dot. Mountain side. Mountain side. Bridge.

And where am I at?

I want to make mountains move with my words. And with my actions.
I want to find THE action that will change this whole pretzel mess of a world with its conflicting minds and opinions.
With its common ground of desire for safety and security.
With its scitter scatter explosions over how to get from A to B, let alone A to Z.
And I want it done yesterday.
For now for later and forever more.

Hmm… tricky order I’ve put in at the counter. (Especially because this appears to be a “make your own” sandwich shop. No full service in this place.)

Sometimes I just want to lie down beside Nora as she hangs on the table.
Sometimes I do.

Out of gas. But I can’t be. Because this heart’s still a-tickin’. So I’ve got work to do.

But I can press pause. I can quit. For 5 minutes or 10 minutes or 30 minutes. Or a day.
I can quit if I need to.

Quitting isn’t a problem. For real.

Not coming back is a problem.

So I come back.
I am dragging myself across this wasteland veiling alchemy.

All the while finding ways. When I can. To go wider. To go broader. To go higher. To go further out than these four walls. Than this sometimes prison of a body and whirligig of a mind.

Learning again.

(Uh, what am I learning again?)

To be here. To practice not leaving when it is time to be here. To practice not escaping when it is time to be here. To feel the burning in my ears. The boredom. Seeing my Nu’s deep brown eyes. Hearing Ruthie’s soft thin voice. Allowing John’s belly sighing and eye rolling commentary on life. My chest cinching like a pair of shoelaces being pulled to a for-sure level of security.

Just practicing. Being here.
Finding my way. Finding our way.


Dot. Mountain side. Mountain side. Bridge.

Quitting when it’s time to quit.
Returning when it’s time to return.

In the vein of Mother Teresa,
the work is not to do great things.
It is to do small things with great care.

I am moving with great care. I am thinking with great care. I am holding this world – and myself in it – with great care.

May I be held in great care.
May you be held in great care.
May we all be held in great care.

Go gentle on the brakes now. Easy does it as we find our way.

Leave a Reply