It's Sunday morning and the Sunday blues have whopped me hard and I need to get ready to go to the beach.
Laundry is doing and I have two sweet little free-range chicken breasts simmering in organic free-range chicken broth for a soup to take. In my world, there is nothing more I can do than make soup and if I love you, I have made soup for you, or will.
Yesterday was so full and then last night...
Well. I had to get up and leave the table at one point because the tears shook me and I couldn't look at the faces of Lon and Lis anymore because all of our hearts are connected so deeply and there I was, right in front of them, my husband on one side of me and my daughter on the other and another daughter nearby and people I know everywhere in the room and I felt my heart rise up, swell up as Lon and Lis sang and it was too much, too much.
And then I made my baby cry. Oh, that's a song, isn't it? But I did it by joking with her, me and another woman and we were telling Jessie that she has to be HERE, here, when she has her babies and poor Jessie, fresh-falling, free-falling in love with a boy who is as attached to his family and as loved by them as she is to hers, by hers, couldn't bear to joke about such things and dissolved into the very same tears I'd just been overfilled with.
One of those nights.
I had to come home and write her, tell her that I'd been a stupid Old Testament Mother God, Thou Shalt Have No Other Mothers Before Me and that I had been wrong and that her life is her own and her loves are her own and she must do what she must and all will be well and all will be fine and we'll all work it out and that's the way it will be.
And you know, those tears have found their way back to me this morning. I sit and write and leak from my eyes, my heart still overfilled from last night, from yesterday, from fifty years ago and thirty-four years ago and thirty-two years ago and twenty-four years ago and twenty-one years ago and last year and tomorrow too, most likely.
It is the blues song of yes, there is so much trouble but underneath it all there is this impossible joy and love that tangles my heart like roots of a tree tangle a stone or a buried treasure, keeping it safe in the ground, surrounding it and guarding it, touching it in its dark place, bringing it life over and over again as the pulse of them, filled with earth's sweet water and minerals born of other stones, other treasures, feed life which in turn, feeds more.
The chicken simmers and I need to go cut up celery and carrots and a sweet onion. This must be a mild soup, no crazy heat of pepper, just the easy tastes of chicken and simple vegetables, rice perhaps, wild and brown so that Kathleen can eat it easily. If I could impart all of what is in my heart, this soup would cure all ails of those I love and sooth all hearts of those I love.
If it were only that simple.
Well, sometimes it is.
Music, ocean, soup, trees, cicadas, hands, tears, words, wordlessness, dirt, water, light.
Eyes. Tearfilled and not. Hearts. Overfilled and not.
Happy Sunday, babies. Thank-you for being part of it all.