True. Love is hard to access. I bump into people at superstore while bee lining for the organic milk. I don’t look my cashier in the eye. Yet love made us. Noble. There is a person, who speaks powerfully soft, and he is saving; he saves every day. This second he is trying to save me. This second as well. Right. It is very right to let go of rights—to fifty percent off coupons, to having the wardrobes we want, to having romantic husbands, and see the aching epidemic of loneliness and want around the block. Pure. Precious little is pure. Wash me and clothe me. We can be un-jaded. We can let babies look us in the eyes. And it’s lovely. Lovely, lovely, lovely. This world is lovely, if we could only see it. Admirable: all the opposite stuff to cool, bad, zingy and Hollywood. Like holding your tongue. Excellent! Praiseworthy! Creation moves with these. Each moment lingers and echoes with these. Hallelujah. God of peace, be with me.
The gulls are hanging in the air like a mobile,
Sitting static on the wind.
The frothy waves throw tantrums on the shore.
Heavy drops fall fresh on my face,
And the wind gives my hair frantic animation.
The sky is dismal; aching with emotion; punctuated with a few hopeful rays;
And I am alive on the ocean.
I am inhaling the sea.
Last night the baby tumbled in my belly
And I was aware
That there is a life cartwheeling inside
Like a free gull riding the wind in a mess of rain and waves.
When we were little my Granny made us collect donations for Unicef. She found the deeper heartbeat of life, my Granny. She had a few friends, lovely and intricate souls, who knew her well, like wise old Margaret Kerr, and spunky Jamaican Helen. Granny saw life move around her like a brilliant kaleidoscope. People were just different strokes of a steadily sweeping paintbrush. And all was still, in her little bedroom, where she was often alone with her breath, slowly moving in and out.
If you flip over a large rock or two along the shoreline of the ocean, you will uncover a world of naked wonders. You will see a limpet or some barnacles. You will scoop up a tiny crab with a beehive imprint on her belly. You may uncover a grainy purple star. And you will understand that some treasures take searching for. Zillions are never found.
Then you will not be mad if you are different; if you’re just too fragile or too ornery or too emotional and you’ve broken the mold. It won’t hurt so much when a group of girls get quiet as you near them. If you’re offbeat maybe you’re a jazz drum. Maybe you’re something that Debussy dreamed up. Breathe; you are certainly the work of a grand creator.
So there’s this little squirming wonder in my belly and I just can’t get enough. Can’t get enough of its jabs and summersaults. What is it thinking? And then it is serene and silent. I poke it and drink juice and lay still… nothing. Throw me a bone little baby! It’s having a lazy day and I am on the phone with stress in my voice, quizzing my midwife. But when it moves—I am doing the breaststroke beside my baby in infantile delight!