birthday

A mad ballooner stopped by last night, unexpected, forever propelling my theory onward: life surprises. People surprise. And it always seems to do so right on cue. 

There is indeed a vast ocean that bellies with ripcurrents and untamed serpents...yet I know to hold on, for there will always be a calm in the horizon where waters sparkle like diamonds, and the moon reflects beauty in bright neon, at every angle for all to see. It’s here where one sails quiescently out into the vista, skimming the frothy undertones of all the turbulence that has past.  My sail is up, the wind is on my face, balloons bobble around me, and I am reminded of wonderful fortune.   

meatball encounter

I love going out to eat. Some poke fun of my bachelor refrigerator, stalked only with condiments and fruit (not to go together of course), or my frozen dinners tucked safely away in the freezer for midnight meals…and yes…the truth is, I don’t cook. At all. I microwave. I have the fastest draw in the east.  My fingers beep-beep and produce a warm whatever-night-meal better than Betty Crocker herself. Ok, that last part isn’t true, but it sounded good. I can cook. At least, I can read directions. The point is; I love going out to eat. And do so often.

Being a vegetarian, I’ve never really had a problem; there’s always something on the menu…some places are better than others…yadda-yadda. However, in all my years of veggie ordering, I’ve never had a situation quite like this:

My step-mother and I were having lunch at a quaint Italian bistro. 

I order a pasta dish with veggies. 

We continue to talk and catch up until our lunch comes. 

Looks delicious: small bowl with pasta heaping over it. 

I bite into it and decide I will need a bigger plate (we're going to need a bigger boat). 

My eyes scan over and see only broccoli and mushrooms, pasta and olives (force of habit). 

I have already taken a few bites. At this time the larger plate comes and I pour the pasta onto it. As the pasta comes toppling down, I see entangled with it, five enormous gray, chunky balls of cow. I immediately shriek and jump back. I have already ingested the pasta which has touched, and been cooked, and been rolled around in the juices of the slaughtered moo-cow. My jaw drops and I realize what has just occurred. My stomach curdles. My face goes white. It has been 17 years. I look at the plate and see the gray, lumpy, gristly meatballs on my plate. It is too late. There is nothing I can do. This is a tragedy of immense proportions. A moment of silence please.

While I realize, this is in part, a comical story to many, and written as such, (also admittedly, even I was laughing hours later)…the actual moment, was not. Anything that is personal, anything that one person believes so deeply in, and lives their life in accordance to, when another interferes with that, it is quite jarring.

So, this was my meatball encounter. I’m surprised there haven’t been more. This is not to say it will keep me from dining out, or rather an impetus to learn to cook. Heavens no. As long as the meat is on the plate next to me and not on my plate, everything is just peachy. 

butterflies

I find myself walking far tonight. The overgrown grass sways in the breeze, rippling up the hill like a bevy of waves, and reaches up faintly tickling my bare legs. I do not know how I got here, or where I am going. The sky shields me in pure, creamy white, and I lay down, enveloped in downy, feathery meadows. The earth is whispering her secret as tens of gilded butterflies fly overhead. They approach closer seemingly magnetized to me, alighting all over my body. I lay motionless, breathing in their intent, and realize they are suddenly gone. My eyes close. I know what I must do. 

feist

One of my favorite videos from 2011.

Artsy, cool, dance-y, trees. Love.

her surprise

She is almost home. They all have been…these wonderful places to rest, to seek shelter from the outside. The night breeze, so gentle and unflawed ruffles her hair just a bit in front of her eyes as she makes her way through her overgrown yard. The smell of sweet roses greet her devotedly, so bittersweet. She tucks the few blond stray hairs from the summer sun behind her ears and takes the steps up to her “home,” her resting place. The key turns, and she thinks silently to herself, how very much she loves this resting place…how she’s truly loved all her safe places…these places in waiting. Yet as she walks in, she knows she is walking in to nothing, to no one, to an empty space…

She shuts the door behind her and breathes in this reality of hers, this reality she never anticipated. Some days paralyzed at the door, imagining what could be waiting at the top of the stairs. She imagines the voices, the various noises, the arms that might welcome her, and the many names she might be called.

But then, she manages to breathe again, a different kind of breath, a heavy, saturated, corpulent sigh.  She sets down her keys. And knows she hears nothing... knows, in this resting place it is just she. The only noises heard are of her own thoughts, at times deafening in her mind.

And then another thought, a more familiar voice, pick yourself up, dust yourself off. No more than that. With lackluster verve she bends down to grab the mail and her moxie deep within and takes the stairs, keeping her gaze locked at her feet as to avoid her fantasies of what could be. Reaching the top, turning the corner she does hear a noise…

SURPRISE!!!

She stands in stupor for a moment. The hugs pile on and her smile grows bright. A single tear rolls down her cheek. Inside she questions its intent, happiness or melancholy.

There was something waiting for her today. For now, it will have to be enough, she thought. Surprises do come. She will hang on to that. If only for a day.