The Chips In My Cookies

As I slap on my makeup and slosh some coffee in a go mug, as I step over puddles lifting my pant legs, as I read through endless training modules on the computer at my new job, and push down the insecurity that threatens to surface, I wonder when I will take a moment to re-group, to breathe, and to be. I wonder if I’m a chocolate chip cookie with no chips, that certain ingredient that everything’s about, that spice of life.

I’m talking about enjoyment. I’m talking about a life rush. Delicate rain in the middle of a sunny day; the feel of my husband’s curly hair; pizza with extra cheese; camp week finally arriving; thrift store shopping with no time constraints; lying on a rug in window light; writing a poem; rubbing my cheek on a kitten; French braiding someone’s hair; making someone laugh hysterically. I’m looking to emote. To find those holy endangered moments that feel like warm wind on the inside.

I wonder if I am bank material. I’m the kind of person that would drop a carrot on the floor and eat it anyways, sit on the ground at a bus stop, sing while I’m walking home, have hot chocolate at Denny’s, and wear jogging pants to the mall. I have a bit of a new gig going on now. My hair is seamless, my pants are ironed and creased. But I will not forget who I am. I will not forget who I am.

Shape of His Heart

I’m walking home realizing I love the way orange looks on grey. Orange leaves against a grey sky; a fire hydrant on a grey sidewalk. It makes contrast—a statement. Set fire to the mundane and it does something for you. I love the way the trees look tonight, all stretched out in upward lines, straining each finger to gift the sky with their leaves.

I’m home. Pork and potatoes are in the oven, the smell of them mixed with the fragrance of roses making me feel domestic and dreamy. My husband bought me red roses last night and I didn’t even notice them, warm and bashful on the table. It’s hard to believe how one-dimensional I can be. I focus on one thing at a time—good if you’re talking to me but bad if a world crisis happens behind you. But roses, they are ultimate romance.

How cozy and cute my husband is: he makes dinner for me nearly nightly, he scolds me lovingly for missing details like turning the lights off, he says “sment” instead of cement, he’s the perfect size to squeeze—exactly my size, he unashamedly loves bacon, when he hums it’s always a made up tune, and every time I leave him he blows me a kiss through his hands which form a heart. When I’m with him I’m home.

Seeds

 

It’s fall and the sunflower heads are past droopy

Like them, I am chock full of seeds

Right now

It’s fall

And I sing with a choir, on Monday night

And I write down words, that I don’t have meanings for

And I hope the children will like me on Sunday

And I dress up for work

Now

I am leaving behind days

All the old excuses

Sitting in single silence

The season of tears

Signing in and out while no one’s looking

 

I’m on the clock

And it’s a blessed change

To make seeds—

To let every single seed drop down

Shake my bowed head

Empty my husks—

To let the earth hold my seeds

All frozen winter.

Don, Dawn and the Day

One dusty, tired trip on the city bus, and so many thoughts to process; a talk with the curly-haired scholar seated across from me reveals crossed paths of youth and creative zest. We hung out with the same artsy rabble.

He knows Don. Don, the man that rededicated his vows in medieval attire; the man that traveled the world on faith, taught hundreds about the Father’s heart, put bread on the table with whatever means he had, whether teaching teens English or driving a bread truck; the man who opened his home and his arms wide to vagabonds like me, and inspired them to be uninhibited dreamers. I love Don, and the curly haired man tells me Don has an aggressive form of brain cancer.

I meet with Helena, the bank manager, to fill out paperwork. Her belly is brimming and she is beautiful with motherhood. She is my age. I fill out the paperwork, smile at the employees, and wonder at the newness of this whole experience. This is a place to fly; no one will hold me back.

Today I am a wife, so I pick up the groceries; I am a new recruit, so I show up early; I am a citizen, so I read the paper; I am an aspiring writer, so I blog. I dream there will be a life resting within me one day. I long to care for my dear friend Don who is sparring with a dark enemy that resides in him. We are indebted to give, to listen, to live, and to be as excellent as we possibly can—to try our best with whatever hats we wear, and to love, love, love.