Carrying All the Ingredients

A disconcerting morning: we lost Emerson.  His little cries called me out of dark sleep. I flailed around trying to disentangle from ropes of sheets, blankets, groping spots on the comforter where he usually is stretched out.  Wayne was gone, the light in the kitchen was on, I could hear the fire roaring.  It was a nightmare, except it was 6:12 a.m. (a nightmare to me, who rises in comfort somewhere around 7:30).  I got out of bed, hurried to the back door, in dread that he'd been locked out with those killer cats; he wasn't there.  I went from room to room, called him, said, "Where are you?"  No answering whines.  I burst into the bathroom, where Wayne was shaving in relative quiet, "WHERE'S EMERSON!" He looked at me, and assured me that the pup was in the house somewhere.

What must it be like, to be so calm?

Why do I trace my steps backwards?  Back through the living room, the bedroom, the back room; I have been through them all twice already.  Back out to the porch, to make sure that the cats hadn't hurt him, sliced him open, maimed him.  Whirling around, back in the kitchen I notice that the door to the pantry was cracked open, not latched.  Ha!  I slid the door open, and out he came, wagging.

You see, he is invisible at dusk, and at dawn.  He disappears into the shadows.  He follows at our heels, and when we make quick U-turns, pop out, and close the door, he is stuck.  To complicate things, he cries out in a pitiful puppy voice, and then sits patiently, quiet as a mouse, waits for me to find him.  He even leans on the door, and falls inside when you open it.

Too often I awaken in a panic.  Sometimes I crash back into this plane, after a night of traveling to various solar systems.  It seems as though I spend too much of my allotted time too far away, then need to rush to get back into my skin, arrange the freckles in their familiar designs, begin the waking up.

My boys loved the books, "Where's Waldo?"  So does Mary Alice.  The boys and I spent many evenings before bed, staring at the illustrations of hundreds of thousands of beach-goers,  or villagers, looking looking looking for the weird guy in red and white striped socks.  "Where IS that Waldo?"

Oh, you will love this:  I am wondering, what would my friend Hafiz say about panic stricken awakenings?  About losing your puppy inside the house?  About forgetting to put your freckles back on straight?

Here it is...

To Build a Swing

Hafiz

You carry 

All the ingredients

To turn your life into a nightmare--

Don't mix them!

You have all the genius

To build a swing in your backyard

For God.

That sounds

Like a hell of a lot more fun.

Let's start laughing, drawing blueprints,

Gathering our talented friends.

I will help you

With my divine lyre and drum.

Hafiz

Will sing a thousand words

You can take into your hands,

Like golden saws,

Silver hammers,

Polished teakwood,

Strong silk rope.

You carry all the ingredients

To turn your existence into joy,

Mix them, mix

Them!

Hafiz is so good to me!
xoxoLC