Awe

 

 

Uncensored.

Raw.

Visceral.

Fierce.

Real.

One love.

 

Following the experience of your shared secrets,

the thrash and throw and through and through, you ask

“What do you think?”

An invitation to write my pale words on the dark chocolate of your back;

ink, paint, and turpentine coursing through my veins,

my heart impaled and split in two,

I find words insufficient and

long to create a new language

worthy of such magnificence;

your work, your words, your totality.

 

Teleme ~ the pounding of my heart as I come close to the earthenware that came through the fire much as I have.

Boudanai ~ the way my skin warms with the knowledge I can leave my bed and stand unadorned before your vision.

Masame ~ the desire of my fingertips to trace the curves and edges that grace my walls.

Siranah ~ the tears which well up, but do not fall, as I greet the splendor that honors my home.

Wanamba ~ the sacred words whispered as I pour myself into the open vessels so willing to receive me.

 

What do I think?

I think I am in awe and

only beginning to know

what to say.

Please, my friend,

be patient with me

for your grandchildren

deserve words far more worthy
thank I have now.

 

~ Mk Michaels

Evolving With the Times

Carve your name on hearts, not tombstones. A legacy is etched into the minds of others and the stories they share about you. ~ Shannon L. Alder 

My home was built in 1955. My small street has a long history of curbside conversations which end up, often enough, as a gathering in one of our homes, children being born, playing, and growing up, and wonderful neighbors who support one another through life's ups and downs. 

There is a stone and cement bench at the front of my yard; the best I can tell, it has been there since the early 1960s. This bench has seen many comings and goings and, I am told, back in the day, the stay-at-home moms of the neighborhood would gather at this bench and visit as their children rode bicycles, played ball, hopscotch, or freeze tag.  I have, many times, collapsed onto this bench at the end of a long but rewarding gardening day.  In the heat of Georgia summers, the kids and I would take popsicle treats to the bench and try to eat them while keeping the melting drips from rolling down our hands. Entrepreneurial Charlie held many child business ventures with the bench as the backdrop; lemonade, stuffed animals, and balloon animal stands.  This bench has seen a lot in its 50 +/- years so as long as I am here, this bench will remain too. 

When Amy passed, I felt strongly about putting in a Little Free Library.  She was an avid reader across a broad so spectrum of books including fiction and biographies and autobiographies of many political figures on both sides of the aisle. Amy loved to read, so it seemed only fitting to honor her with a little library which bears her name. The top shelf is reserved for children's books which has been filled with many of my favorites; Good Night Moon, If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, Is Your Mama a Llama, Walter the Farting Dog, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Junie B. Jones, and Captain Underpants.  The bottom shelf is reserved for young adult and adult books; Judy Blume, The Red Tent, Living History by Hillary Rodham Clinton, An American Family by former Vice President Quayle, Crucial Conversations, The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, and the occasional copies of the Bible and Book of Mormon from passersby which appear periodically.  The Little Library sits next to the stone and concrete bench, of course.

Last year, one of the sanitation workers who services our street stopped by to ask if it would be okay if he borrowed a book but was sure to bring it back. I smiled and encouraged him not only to take a book that day, but as often as he liked.  He met my response with momentary skepticism as if to say "what's the catch?" but seeing the joy in my face that yet another would enjoy our tribute library, his face broke into wide, bright smile. I now see him stop by every week or two to put a book in and pick a new book out. It always makes my day.

Since my Dad died,  I have added books by Stephen Hawking and Carl Sagan, books about Woody Hayes, The Ohio State Buckeyes, Marilyn Monroe, and even a couple copies of my Dad's own books about magic.  It seems our Little Library has a life which evolves as the events of our lives unfold.

This morning, as I took the dogs out, I saw a walker walk past our Little Library and then turn around. He ended up spending a good ten minutes looking at the books, likely on the bottom shelf, before he made his selection and resumed his walk. Once again, my day is brightened by sharing a book from a Little Library dedicated to a beloved coparent and decades-long friend and filled to the brim with books those I love who have gone on before once enjoyed. ~ Mk Michaels

Resistant Transformation

 

Grief does not change you, Hazel. It reveals you. ~ John Greene

There are times loss sucks the air from my lungs and leaves me gasping, a crumbled heap on the floor. More often though, I experience my life’s losses as muted colors and muffled sounds when I was used to living in Technicolor.  In having been twice touched close to my heart by death in as many years, it feels I have lost pieces of me I loved a great deal; my seemingly endless stamina, an ability to help everyone and everybody at the drop of a hat, the ability to try anything...at least once, and the luxury of being able to count on my heart and soul to show up with their historic optimism day in and day out.  In having these constants of my life vacate their posts, if only temporarily, I wonder if the lesson of it all is to learn to slow down,  to sip and savor life’s experiences instead of greedily gulping them, and to view each moment as a precious gift, for there is no guarantee more will follow.  I am a highly resistant student and often rail against the perceived loss of who I was; in this is the greatest pain, for losing others is overwhelming, but losing the person I thought myself to be, devastating.  So, bit by bit, a new version of me is revealed and I am trying really hard to like her. ~ Mk Michaels