Praise inspiration. When it hits, I am the most wealthy woman in the world. A feast for all creation streams through my hands and heart and this love is a well that will never run dry.
That happened this morning. A bubble departs from the crown of my soapy hair and floats up toward the morning light that washes through the wavy window pane. Throughout it’s perfectly spherical skin, a colorful iridescent rainbow smiles as if to say hello. It’s translucent metallic pallet matches the earrings I wore yesterday. They were made by a man who melts and welds things with a certain genius. I think he knows the kind of wealth I’m talking about.
Beautiful morning bubble, short lived, I loved you long enough to be reminded of a familiar oily puddle on the driveway of my childhood home. Particularly on days my dad would go for a ride on his motorcycle, the asphalt ground would be painted with brilliant pinks, purples and blues. Somehow those images are married in my mind.
Though motorcycles were thrilling, he rode many things back then, like airplanes and threads of inquiry that assisted the sharpening of intellect in the household. Conversations were stimulating and diverse for my quickly-developing brain. Telescopes and microscopes and tools. Every kid should be so lucky to know these three implements from an impressionable age, at least for some time. They offered capacity to see in big and small frames, and to teach the art of constructing useful things.
Mom gave birth to the softness of things, with smells of comfort and sustenance. She was the bestower of the clean laundry experience, with the native scent of detergent that gave my nose something to celebrate. I loved the skillful efficiency of the way she folded each garment and fit it all in the basket, usually after a big dinner production to follow a long day of work. And those productions, wow. To plan every meal of every day and make sure each mouth was sufficiently served, that is a thing to be grateful for.
Of all the many grievances I once remembered, on this day, the victories seem to far outway the sloppy soup of things dancing about my past, which no longer make the same kind of sense. Beyond the notion of forgiveness, something gives way to an awe so deep it makes my words still.
I dreamed about that house last night. I am watching it happen. We are going. All of us are going. I look in her eyes with infinite steady gaze. “Mama, everything is going to be okay. Everything is beautiful.”
It happens too fast for anything less. The only choice is love.