The wind picks up forcing my feet to do the same

I try not to become mannequin bones

When I am ill prepared for the flurries

On my twilight splattered walks

The dusty snow swoops across the pavement

Just as the stingray glides through the shallow of a sea.

Stealthily and ever so silent.

A canine as curious as mine

Sporting a detective cloak,

Uses his magnifying glass snout to investigate the fine powder

I assure him that the snow is no more than pixie dust

As we have company with us always.

That lend us an informal hand

In times when we don’t always admit that we need it.

I ache for this.

This morning, I shoveled the driveway of the house that I grew up in. I woke up to a mother who carried tired eyes with face paint of determination. We said we would do it together. I layered myself with outwear, from thermals and wool socks to a down vest, all of which promised warmth. We fetched two of the [many] shovels that we own and headed down the pathway. She of course walked in front of me, creating all of the footprints in the heavy snow. As I followed closely behind, I made sure that my steps would shadow the outline of hers. I allowed my feet to wander nowhere but in the belly of my mother’s footprints, until we got to the end of the driveway.

Always start at the entrance. I have learned this from years of watching out the bay window in my living room. Bend at your knees. It could be heavy snow or light snow but it’s not worth straining your back over. Remember, we are breakable. Take breaks. When you sit to think about it, no matter where you are or what you are doing, rushing only stresses us out. Breathe. You will never love the way cold air feels in your throat more than when you are shoveling. We shield ourselves in layer upon layer, only to be cold for the mere seconds that we are standing still, before we begin shoveling. Give it two and a half minutes and you will be overheating, just on the brink of breaking a sweat. When you bend over to lift the freight in your shovel, the small of your back will be gasping for a cooler temperature. Cold air on our bodies feels good right now. Take time to listen. Often times when you are outside during a snowstorm, there doesn’t seem to be much going on at first glance. Use your other senses. Listen. A bird’s song might never sound quite as pure as it does against the thunder of a plow.  Look around.

This morning, I looked at my mother. I watched her, as she used the arms that raised me, shovel snow from our pathway. Watched her as she took twice the number of breaks as I did. I watched her breathe; slowly and simply. In each breath, I watched her smile. And I smiled. I told her that I liked to watch her. She asked why. I tried to explain. You are a role model. A woman of your age can get up every morning, regardless of snow, and create her path. Sometimes we have to dig, sometimes we are crawling through tunnels and sometimes it’s painless, and the ice melts. This morning mom, you got up and even though you might have resented the Northeast for an instant, you unearthed your snow boots and got down to business. That is a role model. You give me no reason to look anywhere else than up to you. You are a strong woman and I am proud to be a fraction of you.

This morning I started at the entrance. I took deep breaths through my bent knees and I came out with no injuries. I am still breakable but I am strong. Sure, shoveling might not sound like the most thrilling pastime, but it really helps when you have motivation.

We did not come to remain whole.

We came to lose our leaves like the trees,

The trees that are broken

And start again, drawing up from the great roots.

-Robert Bly.

As I lower myself down onto the last step of my back porch

I witness the first snowfall brush the toe of my sneaker

And tuck the October leaves into bed

It is this hint, that tells me it is once again, time to bookmark the Fall

The December air tries desperately to tell me something

I listen.

I try too hard to hear something new.

I am learning to let it be.

Let me try so hard for nothing

Than to just let it be, for now.

I taste anxiety and pride on the brink of an edgy canyon

Recalling memories from a semester that could never be duplicated

I harvest the sensations of a waterfall

I have cried for you, Autumn

And my lips have caught tears of joy and pain in a rift of routine

What happens when we are under the cascade?

Are we allowed to forget reality for a moment?

Let me graduate peacefully

With the globe on my shoulder that

Promises that there is never a shortage of flashlights.

Whispers “we must still take steps after midnight”

I know I must still take steps in the snowfall

It is the comfort of knowing that a new beginning

Is never too far

That helps me realize that it’s okay to just let it be, for now.

Appetites

You can convince this entire population that we are different races

But come on, we are all addicts.

We like to feel good.

The lines gotta be drawn somewhere,

Maybe down my spine where I store my appetite for everything

I am taught that my

Appetite for you’s not clean

Sex is made dirty

Are a society’s eyes so flawless that they don’t blink

Are you all robots?

We blame our sexuality on vapor

Try to make it something invisible

But for what?

The only way I want to define myself

Is by my sexuality.

I find that recently I will just hide out in my room and do random internet job searches ranging from apple picking on a farm in New Zealand to health magazine writing in Boulder to Nanny-ing on Marthas Vineyard. The big question of “What to do after graduation?” sometimes plagues us and we often internalize the “freak out” episodes, and I’m not sure why. I am coming to understand how unhealthy it is for my mind. I opened my tea bag this morning and this is what it had to tell me. No, not a coincidence.

I am in love with a vegetable.

A heart, unlikely beating

But beating me with a faucet of inspiration

An insignificant ball built from the ground and into my hands

Limited sphere, confined to what can fit inside.

Regardless of size.

A faultless child is born.

Mother’s all have yellow energy

There is a necessity to give in,

When your baby bears a recessive gene that makes my hands blush

When I peel it.

Purple child

Dye my fingers red and violet

Until skin is not an option

Make me a rainbow.

I feel like a princess sheltered by the blood of a vegetable

How did I become royalty while making dinner?

I retrieve my soul from a garden

Wondering where this paint came from

I stare at my hands and appreciate

That the color of vegetable never looked this good on the hands of a gardener or a painter.

after eating pomegranates

we nap knee to knee or nose to nose

the friends that make you wish each day were longer.

There was a young man with whom I was friends in high school who passed away a couple of years ago. He used to smile alot. He and I were strictly friends, in fact, I knew this boy through my ex-boyfriend. They played sports together. I remember the number on his jersey:) More times than not, I would be at their games, cheering them on. He was not someone who I became so close with that we kept in contact through college, but since his accident, I recognize how his absence has effected me and those who he gave himself to. I remember that I found out about his death before my old boyfriend did. At first, I was not sure if he knew but I felt like I had to call him just in case. I picked up the phone with an uneasy hand and dialed with fingers that felt like they were detached from nervousness. Experiencing a virtual numbness, I waited as the rings got louder. When he picked up the phone I had to tell him right away for fear that I would forget my own language; fear that the words would not come out if I waited any longer. His reaction was what any of us could imagine our own reaction would be. A young life lost, now a memory. A soul that we would only meet again in time. I think about him sometimes.

Today I was at work and I asked a woman for her “rewards number;” she spelled out her last name. It was a common last name so I thought little of it. For some reason my gut sense told me to look up. One glance at this womans face assured me that this was the young mans mother. To make sure I let my eyes wander to the photos in her opened wallet. I saw two young boys in one photo. Low and behold, there he was…that smile that I so vividly can etch out in my canvas mind. Next to that photo was another, a pictutre of a young boy who must have been his brother…can you imagine? Once a younger brother and now an only child. I guess you could look at it that way but I know that I would always be proud to consider that guy my brother, even if his tall thin body wasn’t there to tower over me any longer.

 Losing a child is something that I understand every parent must fear either consciously or subsonsciously. I so badly wanted to look at her and say, “I knew him and I miss him too.” Or at least tell her that I knew him and loved his company or share some sort of connection that I KNEW your son. But instead I decided I would keep it to myself and just stare right into her eyes as I gave her the change, and smile-hoping that I could give to her even a fraction of what his smile gave to me.

So recently I have been listening to Grace Potter and the Nocturnals when I drive, I find comfort in her messages and in her voice. Enjoy.

“So don’t come looking baby, don’t come looking babe…cause If you look too hard you might find me in the wrong place”

My mother gave me a gift this morning. A Buddhist scripture book on simplicity, generosity and compassion. In the beginning of it there are “Eight Realizations.” Within the teaching of the “First Realization” there was one idea that sat with me;

“The minds is the source of all confusion, and the body is the forest of all impure actions.”

Amen.

Try sleeping on the other side of your bed tonight. It might have and effect on you in ways you can’t quite explain.