It is here
Imagine the deliciousness of letting
into the deep
sea of sleep, allowing yourself to
s – t – e – p
you can f sky
or even float
like a boat
in the vastness of the water
from your grasping
It is here
in the most ordinary
of opening yourself
now of what is.
I had fun playing with formatting on this one. At some places it’s difficult to read, although I hope you found it a fun little adventure. ;]
Her Kitchen is Alive
In her kitchen, the dish towel on the drying rod talks dirty to the dog on Sunday mornings after breakfast. The flowers in the vase on the windowsill announce the time whenever a spatula is used to turn pancakes in the iron skillet. The coffee maker only works when someone in the living room is watching the news on TV. Every third time she uses the toaster, if she leaves it unplugged, the bread comes out extra crispy.
If you whisper Sweet Pup to the colander, it drains more quickly. And, yes, you always thread her knives to make them sharp. Her age-old wooden spoon lies to the rolling pin every time she makes an apple pie. Did you know that her refrigerator light won’t come on unless she plays Jackson Brown music for it; sometimes she can sing some old folk song and it will work, although it’s dimmer.
When she flips the light switch on the wall, the broom automatically gets out lasagna ingredients. Every time oranges or lemons are peeled, they set off the smoke alarm. The floor gets slippery whenever it smells taco seasoning being added to the ground beef. To preheat to 425 degrees, her stove waltzes around the room with the dishwasher. The oven cleaner under the sink burps every time she pours a soda into a chipped glass tumbler.
Whenever dishes are washed in the sink, the canned corn and peas in the pantry feel sad. The utensils keep threatening to turn into silver, but they don’t like green and are afraid to tarnish. The salad plates in the cabinet love saltine crackers, especially with a pat of peanut butter on top. She just learned that her pots and pans listen to the birds and clatter around when the feeder is empty. She’d already discovered that when a blue jay arrives in the backyard, the lid for the Dutch oven makes a sound like a baseball bat cracking. If the temperature outside gets below freezing, the potholders curl up next to the dishtowels in the bottom drawer and read Rumi love poems.
I don’t remember the prompt that got me started on this piece. It sure was fun to play with reality!
She looks out across the lawn to the garden bed barren after winter’s biting bitterness. “Break through”, she encourages the perennials, imagining their seeds cracking open, green growth sprouting from their dark crustiness at the heart of their being, pushing up through the soil toward the light of the sun, into the warmth of spring, so that she could see them come alive. As if carried on a breeze whispering through the trees, she realizes she is talking to herself.