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.
Oh, good morning to you, too.ReplyDelete
Oh, Ms. Moon.ReplyDelete
every golden drop of you.
Beautiful...so very beautiful..flowing from the heart..indeed.ReplyDelete
well, do visit to see the new ones..one of which is inspired by this theme here..
mmmmMMM! yummy warm eggs, were they brown too, the yummier!!! LOVE your homemade Mary!!!ReplyDelete
I adore this little corner of favorites and lovelies...what a combination..Tarzans, mermaids, Marys and Tequila...you are my kind of gal!ReplyDelete
I'm sure I couldn't be a pimple on Weismuller's ass, but I know I'm loved, just as you do. I don't think anyone expected every Virgin post to be traditional, whatever that is. I think God and Mary and all of them better be able to take a joke. If they can't, then they ain't Saints. Same with anger. When my daughter was killed in a car crash, I was pissed off to the max. If God didn't understand that, well, he (or she) ain't God.ReplyDelete
I love the swinging altar. I want one! What a great gift to receive. Oh, and irreverence is part of life for all of us. Mary gets it, I'm sure of it.
Peace Ms. Moon
Elizabeth- And now, good afternoon. I hope you are not doing too much in trying to catch-up which is impossible anyway.ReplyDelete
rebecca- Especially the part about Tarzan's ass, right?
Ramesh- I did and it was lovely!
Turquoise- Green eggs! They were green.
But only on the outside.
deb- Then you are MY kind of gal.
Spadoman- I agree with you one hundred percent. Take us as we are, humans all or get out of the way. Thank-you for commenting.
I clicked for big, and yes, there was indeed man-ass.ReplyDelete
He was your pretend-boyfriend, right?
You never know - my godmother was apparently once engaged to Yul Brynner's son.
Danielle is jealous of your writing room.
Jo- Good Lord, Woman! Johnny Weismuller was born in 1904! I am old but not THAT old!ReplyDelete
And Danielle should be jealous of my writing room. It's the perfect room. Well, it would be even more perfect if there was heat.
What a hoot your post is--and your hanging Guadalupe next to Johnny Weismuller. Sounds like you are living the perfect life for you.ReplyDelete
I need to hear the definition of a perfect man ass. I liked those old Tarzan movies. But his accent was too much like New York for someone raised by apes. And the yodel was too much.ReplyDelete
Oh, how I wish I had 'met' you before I went out to Tallahassee in August to visit my sister who lived in Monticello! We even went to Wakulla Springs (my request). My sister had to move to Tampa in Oct., unfortunately, to be near her son and his family. Unfortunately, because I know she hated to leave Monticello.ReplyDelete
I love the altar you daughter made (who wouldn't?). You make me laugh and cry at the same time and then you open up my heart even further with your outlook.
You know how to live, woman!
My dad, a preacher for all of his life, used to say, "God doesn't need me to defend him. He can take care of himself."ReplyDelete
So can Mary, crazy altars and all!
Fran- Yep. Works for me.ReplyDelete
Syd- "Perfect man ass?" Hmmm. Not sure how to define it. But like porn or art, I know it when I see it. And hey- a perfect man ass can be BOTH porn and art. Accent? Tarzan spoke? I was too busy watching his perfect man ass to notice.
Paula Scott- Yep. I'm right here, east of Tallahassee, west of Monticello. I bet your sister does miss Monticello. Did you love Wakulla Springs?
Magical Mystery Teacher- Very true.
The guilt - I am learning not to have it. Which is delicious. (Doesn't always work.)ReplyDelete
I love everything May makes.ReplyDelete