Okay, so here's the deal.
I need to start writing again. It
has to happen. So for the month of July,
I'm going to post something every day.
I'm not going to promise anything earth shattering. I'm not promising anything beautiful and
profound. I'm not even promising
anything good. But I'm going to write.
I tried this once before, and it didn't go so well...but it
will this time, even if only because it has to.
I need to be writing something other than treatment plans and progress
notes.
So here is where I am starting: I'm laying on the floor in
my living room. My dog is happily eating
a paper towel tube next to me -- it's his favorite toy so I let him have it,
even if it means I step on wads of wet, chewed cardboard. There's a fan running in every room, working overtime
against the heat and humidity outside.
We're lucky: there's a breeze outside today disrupting the humid
stillness.
I've just unloaded my groceries and I'm still warm and
sticky. My elderly Deaf neighbor is
outside in her pajamas calling her cat: "ommmmm eeeeee," she
calls. "Ommmm eeeeee!" Come in, she's saying. Come in!
My hair feels frizzy and out of control, so I pulled it up into a knot
on top of my head, just to get it out of the way. There's a dog barking outside, which makes
Marshall raise his head. He barks,
softly. "Marsh..." I warn
him. He puts his head down with a groan,
then spies a piece of half chewed cardboard, puts it between his paws, and
resumes chewing. I wish I understood the
appeal of this.
My thoughts are busy, and my body feels tight in all the
wrong places. It's been one of those
days when my skin just doesn't seem to fit right on my body. One of those weeks, rather -- or months, or
years, perhaps. The pressure from the
atmosphere seems to want to hold my breath captive in my chest, but I force it
in and out, wondering if soon, this act of breathing will begin an accordion-like
sound. My busy mind follows that thought
and briefly wonders what song my breathing would play. This will require more thought. What about for you?
We're supposed to get thunderstorms tonight. The sky is already overcast, the air is heavy,
and the pressure in my head indicates the weathermen are likely right on this
one. A storm is definitely coming. I take a sip of my barely cold water and a
bite of cantaloupe. It's summer in
Maryland.
Summer in Maryland is different than summer in Ohio. Summer in Maryland has a history that tastes
like crab cakes, and sun tea, and corn on the cob. It's deep red tomatoes with mayonnaise and pepper
at my grandmother's house. It's swimming
in dirty lakes, going down the shore, and games of Capture the Flag. Summer in Maryland is wild blackberries deep
in the woods, straight off the plant.
It's a history of crayfish catching and butterfly nets; mason jars with
fireflies; pool water stinging my nose.
It sounds like my grandmother's laugh and cicadas. Summer is a visceral experience.
It's been a long time since I've inhabited my body this
fully. There's a gratitude I experience
for life these days that I had forgotten.
I notice the smallest things, and they amaze me: the taste of yogurt and
fresh blueberries. The smell of fresh
cut grass. Lightning bugs making a
Christmas light display of the dark. The
feel of rain on my skin. Finding this
space in my body and mind for gratitude is like falling in love with the
world. It's like being present for my
life for the first time in a long, long while.
I have a theory about this. This
is what I do while walking, cleaning, driving, showering, sleeping...I make
theories, then revisit them later. My
mind is a veritable textbook of half-baked theories, waiting for me to prove
them right.
There's so much I've missed while my mind was busy doing other
things. I'm ready to re-learn
summer. Cantaloupe and thunderstorms
seem like good places to start.
