My head is covered with mottled goo. Sloppy, sticky, belly full of metaphorical bacon grease. Release stuffed feeling, let go of ugly curmudgeon who hovers inside. This ugly curmudgeon is a grouch, unbearably cantankerous doesn’t want to let anyone in, not remotely, not intimately, prickly pear interior and even worse on the outside – gluey plus prickly.
(I put my pen aside).
650: on my front porch I actually manage to write for five minutes, stream of consciousness - free flow style.
A customer pulls up to my neighbor’s house. At 2 am Saturday night there was a constant in and out, out and in. I watch the loud truck, the beat up old red rattletrap truck… listen as its hum becomes inaudible, replaced by the view of a recently rear ended Toyota heading south.
I remember I have a meeting at Dagny’s with Zona on Wednesday. I think about laundry.
My eyes watch a large, very shiny black pick up on its way toward Oildale. I think of all the ways to describe a truck driving North. So many heart breaks and country songs chronicle pick-up trucks and semi trucks facing different directions with willful determination.
Maybe that’s me.
I tend to catalog things according to time and the bigger, longer chunks are now looking ominous and funereal dirge-like despite all my optimism and forced light upon them the spider webs and german cockroaches become Alice-in-Wonderland omnipresent. I see the eyes of the woman whose name I can’t remember and the eyes of the woman whose name I can remember and I have a choice: the loving, open green (could be any color) or what I made the other (she doesn’t like me and I don’t know why) (remind myself to send condolence letters) that would be healing. That would be healing….
I hear an engine start. One of the M’s, not sure which. R, I see, turning and walking away. So much sadness here, so much hurt, so much fear, like at the airport last night that turned loud noises into chaos that tumbled over into my life for hours and hours and now, cleared away into light again.
In those present moments – until the light appeared, I wonder… I wonder…
What if we all understood and treated one another as love personified instead of as the enemy?
What if we answered our phones, created connections, built bridges of rope and steep and hemp and angel kisses and cotton and recycled rubber?
What if I declared this quarter – this September through December as love personified?
When I forget to be afraid I am strong. How strong am I?
Yesterday I hugged Amanda for so long.
She almost didn’t know what to make of it, almost didn’t know what to say.
“Do you remember talking?” (Of course I do!) “It worked – twice!” Babies.
I also remember attempting to attend the baby shower, melanoma was alive and well on my face, fear scuttling into my throat and hands and freezing my heart, pushing people away, not allowing any possibility of more pain to grow as I imagined no one really wanted me there, anyway.
I turned my car east, and north – a block from the baby shower. Gift wrapped, note written never delivered.
New outfit I bought to be more confident put back on the hanger.
If I forgot to be afraid and accepted we are all – each of us - love personified – it would be different. I would be different.
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Julie Jordan Scott inspires people to experience artistic rebirth via her programs, playshops, books, performances and simply being herself out in the world. She is a writer, creative life coach, speaker, performance poet, Mommy-extraordinaire and mixed-media artist whose Writing Camps and Writing Playgrounds permanently transform people's creative lives. Watch for the announcement of new programs coming through the end of 2016.
To contact Julie to schedule a Writing or Creative Life Coaching Session, call or text her at 661.444.2735
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