March 24, 2016

Iridescence: A Lyric Exploration


That which She who shows luminous colors that seem to change when viewed from different angles is called iridescent. To see from a different angle is a matter of work, a choice.

My continued pursuit of shine: I have chosen to see the future from different angles. Colors illuminate paths of possibility without number, and that which is fixed anchors each: my children, friends and loved ones, community and commune-ity, my faith and the love of God, the need to create and to live an extraordinary life.

February  just past: the culmination of months of depression and stress gnawing at the heart of my beautiful everyday lead me first to prayer, then to a notebook, and then to a doctor.

In the prayer: Here I am. This is quiet. This is mine.

In the notebook: a list of the ways my body feels broken.

From the doctor: you are not sleeping enough. You have not slept enough in almost three years. You are overworking your heart, your stomach, your mind. A note. Take it to the therapist downstairs.

In the notebook that night: Plan A, Plan B, Plan C. They all begin with an edict: cut back at work. Sleep more. Finish school. Mamma more. Quiet thoughts more. Stress less.

The brother-in-law was here from LA before the doctor week and when the brother is here things are easier in many ways. He is a persuasive and gentle salesman for the idea of a move to Burbank, where he and the sister live (one of the sisters). No kids of their own. Commune-ity. Big hearts. There are jobs for me there, and good schools for the kids and sunshine. The beach in one hour one way and the mountains (even snow) in the other. On the phone with the sister she says come in July. The thought goes in the notebook. In Plan B-- a red that fades to orange because it would be hasty but alright. Plan A calls for one more year, cap and gown at almost 37, and then deciding, carefully. Assessing all that is, all that has passed. It is soft mint, like lamb's ear or sage buttercup shoots in spring. Plan C ends in a question mark that looks like home, and has no color that stays.

Best-friend texting:

She. Don't make a decision to fill a void.

Me. Voids must be filled. Even if temporarily or changeably. Close family fills a lot of voids.

She. Love you without location.

With the friend-boss:

Me. I need to leave a little. And then maybe leave more. But my segmented heart is half-rooted here. These people! This garden they grow! I don't know.

She. Leave a little. Get some rest. Tell me more and when. Your roots will transplant if you need them to, but I like them here. Finish school.  We'll see.

With the therapist:

Me. It's really about seeing an end in sight when I need to see a beginning behind. And these high                   expectations.

She. You're very hard on yourself. An A- is a good grade. Many students have fewer                                 children and fewer publication credits than you.

Me. But I am a butterfly. I don't have as much time. I have fears that drive me as much as hope.

She. Tell me about the men.

Tuesday just past: the first day I can feel it, this working less. Money is tighter, but after school, I come home. My children come home. That is new. We have almost five hours together before night falls. This has happened before, but as a fluke, not routine. It is calendared now! I let my sugarless-Lent end early and we eat cake to celebrate. We talk about August and the road trip, and I get a Go-Pro steal off Craigslist for the journey. We talk about hometowns, and wander-lust, roots and wings. The light changes, and Plan A calls out: Wait. It may be Burbank. It may be Missoula. It may be everywhere, in all the colors. Get some more rest but keep working hard. See how the light changes if you just hold on to this beautiful Tuesday, this beautiful everyday, and shine.

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