Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Church Of The Batshit Crazy, Services 24/7
It's one of those days. It is gray and it is raining, off and on, and I have tracked dog shit all over the house, little dried crusts of it as if I had taken an ink stamp and stamped, stamped, stamped through the dining room, hallway, kitchen. Not an ink stamp. A poop stamp.
I've already been to the trash place- why not? and dumped the three bags of trash I had to take, one of which had dead mice in it (we are setting traps and when I say "we" I of course mean Mr. Moon because- oh come on!) and all of the trash I cleaned out of the closet which is now fairly tidy and much better organized and also the paper recycle which included about four phone books as well as at least a month's worth of newspapers.
To top it all off, I will take the compost out in a moment.
And my coffee is weak this morning. Like brown water. How did THAT happen?
Owen is coming soon. His papa is going down south to see his elderly grandparents who are both in the hospital and so the boy will be here a lot this week and actually, Lily and Owen both are sort of moving in because she has to open on Friday and tomorrow I'll be going to Thomasville with Kathleen. She is getting a scan to see what is what and we'll both be hoping, if not for a miracle, at least the very, very best.
And I have two rehearsals this week and lines, I need to go over lines. I NEED and HAVE to go over lines.
I should make a big pot of soup. I'm out of carrots. Dang.
Well, it is one of those weeks. We shall persevere and there will be joy, even if it rains. Even if it's cold. And by god, one of my closets is not a mess. Somehow this helps. As if I had chipped off the very tip of an iceberg and declared the project well begun!
I woke up at three a.m. and realized the Elmo song was going through my head. It is not a great song.
When I was cleaning out the closet I thought about how when we moved into this house almost seven years ago I had no grandchildren and two children still living at home. Well, there was a third child here because her mother had moved and she was living here to finish high school. I look back on that and think, "What?" But yes, it's true. She called me "Mom." She had a cat. She was one of Lily's best friends.
Life is always complicated. That is the essence of life. And people who become monks or nuns of one sort or another and spend their lives in devoted and quiet worship or meditation are to be admired, I suppose, but I am not sure. I read once a long time ago that householder yogis have the most difficult path and that fact, through its perceived truth to me, has stuck with me and I still agree.
Our devotion and worship is done as we make beds, as we earn livings, as we tend and comfort sick children or spouses or friends, as we scrub toilets and remove poop-stamps from the floor, as we make soup, as we wash dishes, as we put away laundry, as we drink our coffee, as we feed chickens and trim back dead branches and prepare the earth for spring planting.
As we learn our lines. As we play tent on the bed with a baby. As we find the divine in the poopy diaper, the clean closet, the vase of glass gathered on a beach which we rediscover in the closet when we organize it, the edges smoothed from the toss of water and sand, as sparkling and somehow magical as it was as the sun set over the Caribbean when we gathered it, just the two of us, a man and a woman, householder yogis on vacation finding what might be trash, what might be jewels, sparkling as the gentle waves went in and out as the sky and water turned every color of blue and purple and gold and pink.
And we brought it home and resumed our dutiful worship and devotion and I found it last night and put it in a vase to remind me of something, I am not sure what, as the sky today is gray and the tree limbs are so dark against it and this is my prayer today. This is my song.