Doggone it! Everything was going hunky-dory, and wham! In a flat second I was rolling around in agony, cussing. Emerson saw this as the perfect opportunity to romp on me, and jumped right in the middle of my (what? I don't even know what side I was on!), anyways, he took the moment to kiss my face. Luna did, too, though with a little more discretion, as she knows what it means when I am flopping around on the ground, swearing. Wayne was cutting wood, had a nice little pile to go, and I headed with the dogs down a steep, paved piece of the road. Maybe I stepped on an acorn? At the moment I knew it was all over: I had just called Luna back, Emerson charged ahead. And then my left boot toe caught and as I was going down, God said, "Flip girl, or your ankle is toast, and I mean burnt." I did. I flipped over and lit on my knees and only partially ruined my ankle, thank you, God.
Motion is the significance of life, and the law of motion is rhythm.
Hazbat IInayat Khan
I spent some time in the rocking chair, with my foot up on the hassock. I watched the clouds race shadows up the face of the hill. I watched the hill in front turn dark, with gray trees and red power poles, while the hill in back was bright, illuminated gold with flashing silver pines. I watched clouds, white and pretty, frame a blue line at the top of the ridge.
It's a cliche: One must hurt one's self to slow down, to access tears that are just beneath the surface, held back by a good day, or new hiking boots.
It's a cliche: Stop and smell the roses.
Often I think that I am so slow that a slug can get ahead of me. I sip my beer, nibble my dinner, think and rethink whatever needs a good analyzing. It takes me hours and months to finish a quilt, or revise a poem. I like to hang in a conversation, draw it out, leave it unfinished so we can take it up again, like braiding several wide, colorful grosgrain ribbons into a long ornament.
So, Wayne took my list to the store:
- Ice cream.
- Cream for coffee.
- Butter for cookies.