I hear and listen, but then I walk away gone
I stoop down to help with an offering hand,
but then I pull back and recoil
I reach out to ask,
but then I wall up
I crave the conversation
but also the solitude
I find a thousand different dreams to start
but don’t finish.
I chatter, and cheer, and dance, and suprise
I commit to every offer,
but sleep in late to avoid
I say yes and mean it wholly,
but then want to run to wilderness and breath in mountain air instead.
I dream of that summit lodge of mine in the Rockies, covered in snow
An outdoor steaming hot pool
An indoor roaring fire
And the solitude of weeks to listen
To listen to the piled up snow fall from the tree branches and the
swoosh of my breath and a ski.
In that dream there is a sleigh pulled by horses with bells that tinkle,
And I don’t have to write or say a single, solitary thing.
I dream of that salt water on my lips and through my finger tips
the sand rushing, rolling through the waves and hair.
Then always back to my ways of committing and yessing.
I tell my almost adult children how to live intently but carefully,
and then second guess all that I’ve taught them.
I scrub the bathroom floor to sparkling,
but also dump all the clean laundry on the floor
I wake up early to set the coffee in the french press,
but still rush out the door.
The world of the mind and the body cascading forward always,
Rolling downhill and chaotic,
Until rest brings breath and life again,
Like a gasping, punctuated gulp.