There is a Season, Turn
I’m tempted to patch up a big piece of duct tape over the mouth of my writing voice because I have friends – the ones who are really really good, the ones with discipline, who don’t have lazy writing ticks – I see them display an edge of crazy that reeks of bare skin and frizzy hair on a desert plateau. And though they are what I love best about the whole wide world, and though I want to be like them with every stitch of myself, today it scares me to death that I would display myself that way.
Living with these boys in this new stage of baby-on-a-hip and with the new eyes of my free-thirties (the beautiful uncool), I feel the spinning, perfectly upright top begin to stabilize. There comes a slower reflective leaning. I know that soon the edges will circle wide and begin to skim the grasses, and from here, I figure that then I’ll have to deal with the grasses. I’ll be showing them here, uncut, full of weeds. I’ll show the full range of a maturing woman, how she leans and has to deal.
Imagine me alone while Seth flies over the sea. Spread out are the tiny papers, my lists. I will never sleep on purpose without him. Part of my balance has been learned with his weight. Rhythms are set to him.
And it’s ok. It’s ok. This is how it’s supposed to be.
Not long from now, the spinning deepens to a roll, and maturity lands in the perfect place of childlikeness, strawberry seeds, dirt under fingernails, the smell of mothballs in hats that remind us. Once a dance floor was all ours.
Do I display for you the full unhindered range of a woman in her spinning years, the years for which all the momentum of youth was made?
Of course I do. Of course. But some days are not for the showing. Some days, all we get to do is spin.