Here is another May-made-me Our Lady and it is a small hanging altar. There is a place to put a little candle in the back of it. This is not the best picture in the world but I like it because in such a small shot, it also shows two of the dolls May has made me over the years, as well as a map of Cozumel and a picture of my very first boyfriend, Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan when he was making a movie right down the road at Wakulla Springs. It is, without a doubt, the best picture of that man I have ever seen and if you look carefully, you can see a sliver of his perfect man-ass underneath that loin cloth of his and that still gives me a shiver in my loins when I see it and oh, wait. Were we talking about the Holy Mother?
Yeah. Yeah. (Fanning herself)
So yes. That beautiful little altar which May made me with her very own hands and the dolls, too, (one of them a mermaid) and Johnny and the map of the island where I have had some of the most magical times of my life and that is just one tiny corner of the office which is in the old kitchen of this house.
Why, you may well ask, don't I spend every waking moment in there?
I have no idea.
Probably because even as I write, I am also doing fourteen other things and you know what I mean. For instance, right now I am writing and making coffee and making oatmeal and I have been out to let the chickens out and give them their corn and I found two beautiful, warm eggs, and dump out a vase of greenery which had exceeded it's use-by date and letting dogs in and out and feeding them and that's the way I live my life and it is always a goal of mine to shut myself in the office and turn off the phone and sit down daily for at least an hour and write. Or, to go in there and do yoga for an hour.
And sometimes I do but mostly I fit writing in between loads of laundry and doing dishes and sweeping floors and that extra twenty steps out to the office to sit back down and reclaim my thoughts just seems like too much, as does GIVING MYSELF the time and permission to go in there, close the door, and do what my heart wants.
And you know why?
Because it is such a wonderful and joyful thing that I feel guilty.
And isn't that ridiculous? Isn't that insane?
It is. Completely and utterly insane.
Well, it is warmer today and perfectly gorgeous and I NEED to finish laundry, go for a walk, learn lines, etc., etc., and, and, and...
But THERE. I have reminded myself that the little room where I have some of my most favorite things in the entire world is there, waiting, as always. It sits patiently with its Madonnas and Tarzans, mermaids and maps, yoga book, desk, old Tequila bottle which tells a story, antique typewriters, old file cabinet which holds everything from my children's birth certificates to my divorce decree and also letters and pictures the children drew when they were little and the cards they made me and there is the bookshelf with favorite books and copies of my novel and rejection letters both curt and sweet and a golden fish and pictures of Frida Kahlo and well...
I could live in that room and right above where I write, when I DO write out there, hangs that beautiful little altar that my daughter made me.
It is Saturday. I live in my dream house. I am surrounded by glory of all sorts, so much that there is too much to take in in one day, too much to enjoy in a lifetime. Hello, it is here, I am too.
Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned as have all of us. Bless me, Mother for I have done well, too, and extended my kindness, my hands-working, my heart to a few, at least, and I am no virgin and neither was Johnny Weismuller and amen to that and amen to the rooms of my house and the rooms of my heart where there is love tucked in everywhere, given and received and given out again and received back in thousand measure, great dripping golden armfuls of it, and when I need it, it is there.
For far more traditional takes (without Tarzan, mostly) on The Mother, go see Ms. rebecca because much glory abounds there. Her blog is another room in the richness of my life-dwelling.