Saturday, July 22, 2017

Two of Cups

It has been a long while since i've come to this space to write, since I have felt like my brain was capable of writing. I'm not sure it yet is--fuzz, mostly, static. Beads of sweat are moving down my spine even though I/m on the porch, and the air is moving and not humid in the way the Midwest was humid, but it hasn't rained for over a month and the sky is like a peeled egg and the sun so bright.

The garden is verdant though. Early this spring, R. and I built three raised beds in the parking strip and i planted sugar peas (not doing so well), a billion tomatoes, zucchini, cucumber, sunflower, dill, basil, pumpkin, watermelon. We've harvested one cucumber so far, and a handful of peas. And in a fit of manic energy I began bagging the fivebillionsquarefeet of cedar chips that are our side yard and we had a fence guy come out and give us an estimate and I've pulled up landscaping fabric and now it's a dirt pit.

Today I washed the dogs for the first time in probably a year. Max took it well, Mr. Bill screamed and screamed and acted as though I were killing him. But they are almost dry now and they smell much better and we walked them through the fancy part of the neighborhood and they mostly behaved.

Jonah has been gone four weeks, comes home in five. Thirty-three days. His hair is still long and he spends his days at his father's double-wide writing songs and drawing. His father makes him take a judo class three days a week and he doesn't hate it as much as he thought he would.

It has been a week and a few days since R.'s procedure. When they wheeled him away from me, into surgery, I could barely stand. I went into a bathroom, locked myself in the handicapped stall, and cried.

He is still radioactive for another week. We sleep with a pillow between us. He is tired. He takes a handful of pills when he wakes up, when he goes to bed. It will get better now. I believe this, but I am also wary.

I ran my first race since moving across the country. I will run my second tomorrow.

It has been a difficult six months. I have wanted to curl around myself, around my family, and disappear. I cannot write. I can barely think. I finished my book two summers ago, and last summer at the coast, I began the next one but I can't seem to get to it right now. Everything is sideways, glancing.I deleted social media from my phone. I am learning to read the Tarot, am reading poetry, probably drinking too much wine. I am having a particularly difficult time being in my body, my forty-year old body and my hair greying at my temples and lines moving into permanence on my face.

On Friday, I took the day off because i have so much unused vacation time, and I took myself to Sauvie Island. I watched cottonwood drift into an electric blue sky, barn swallows, a bald eagle over the Multnomah Channel. I saw grebes and osprey and northern flickers. I sat on the banks of the Columbia and watched a tugboat churn past.

I go to work, I run, I go to rehearsal, I rake woodchips, I water the garden. I sit with R. on the porch and watch evening sift over the neighborhood, the sky become milk-blue, then pink, then a few stars.


  1. To everything there is a season.
    This may be your season of stillness within.
    But it sounds hard. I'm glad to hear your voice, though. And please know- we are all here.

  2. I got nothing. Right now your life sucks and I'm sorry. Cancer is a random asshole that likes to fuck with people's lives.

    Sending virtual hugs and love.

  3. I'm glad you wrote this here. Sending you love.