Sunday, January 20, 2013

Quote(ish) Sunday

I feel quiet lately. Or at least quieter. It's a full kind of quiet that's flooded with all sorts of thoughts and feelings and plans and things. I feel like I can get lost in this quiet. But in a good way. I could sit here in the sun in my kitchen staring out the window at the snow and sink into this quiet for hours. It's an easy quiet, somehow more natural than the loud.

I feel like I'm in a flow. Right now life is simple and fun and brilliant and easy. That might be dangerous to say. It's not that I'm in vacation mode. I mean it is. But the flow is deeper than that. I'm just happy right now. A quiet simple happy. I feel grounded. Deeply grounded. Like I can lean into things that are uncomfortable and scary and unknown, because I'm grounded so it will work out. Maybe that's the best thing about being in a flow; a (sometimes) irrational belief that things are always okay in the end.

And I feel vulnerable these days. Every single day I feel vulnerable. But the beautiful thing is that I haven't been slammed for it. I've felt loved and supported and accepted. Which makes being vulnerable all the better.

And I can't get this poem out of my head. It's called "Happiness is a Hot Mess" and it's by Lauren Zuniga:

There are vegetables overflowing from every surface.
Growing from pots, saved from dumpsters, crooked
sculptures in bowls. The windows are open. Sampson
and Delilah are necking, frenzied black fur and growl.

Lemon Engine is learning the banjo. Cigarette perched
on bottom lip. Clumsy claw hammer. Occasionally,
she looks up to see if she is disturbing anyone. Even
the ceramic owls are tapping their feet. The ants two-
step along mean trails of cayenne. No one is going
anywhere.

The shower curtain keeps falling. The door is off its
hinges. This house is not used to such warm sirens.
Rising up smells like lavender oil and a pile of sweaty
girls. I fell off my bike yesterday; I’ve been admiring
the wound all morning.

Abundance is a handmade grail, filled with mulberry
mead. All these years, I had mistaken it for a clean
house and full bank account. When it came, I didn’t
even notice the casual spill. How it stained the linens.
How it made every crevice glow so loud and sweet.

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