Friday, May 30, 2008


Have you ever felt…stuck? Stuck. Frustrated by the same things. Annoyed that what annoys you is starting to both annoy and bore you. Feeling that what you want is so close, and yet not. No, wait. You don’t even know what you want. So how can you know it’s close?

Meaning to mean something and hearing with horror as the words from your mouth come out differently than you intended. The intention, twisting, spinning round and round as you see it going…down the drain. Of course you need to do something differently. But, what?

And then, suddenly, inexplicably, you’re unstuck. You speak, unsure of what to say, and watch in awe how it comes out…right. Things you used to swim against the current for drop. On your lap. Free. Your lost friend calls you. Your business prospers. What used to matter doesn’t. Really. You suddenly – oh! - understand.

I’m not sure what causes the change. I think it’s a current, an invisible current that we have no control over (although we like to think we do) that runs through everything. When it switches direction you marvel at the consequences it leaves in its wake.

Or maybe it’s that life is like a kaleidoscope. You look through the eyehole, rotate it ever so slightly, less than a fraction of a millimeter, to find the picture has changed, the prisms, the colors, everything has shifted, and the world looks better now.


Tuesday, May 20, 2008


An orquestra from inside the orquestra me conducting a priceless violin a lot of work a vacation on a beach the unexpectedly loud sound of waves beating against rocks the fact that I started reading again a lot four books a week discovering a new favorite author losing something I had found finding something I had lost learning remembering how much I love to learn so hungry for learning having many questions without answers watching one of my favorite movies ever needing to look inside to listen to myself not knowing what to pick having too much to say nothing to say nothing to add feeling kind of blah and then feeling motivation new fresh knowing you misplace people along the way but feeling regret despite the knowing wondering if it’s just a scrape or a deeper crack something irreparable watching things unfold hurting someone I really didn’t mean to hurt recovering an incredible stroke of luck a fantastic restaurant salsa negra feeling like it doesn’t matter it never mattered

Just a few of the reasons I haven’t written

Photo: Wikipedia

Thursday, May 1, 2008

Without me

I'm out of town this week, and my husband is at home without me.

Luca, who likes coffee but drinks tea, who sleeps on his left side, who likes black beans but not peas, who yodels when I make eggs for breakfast, who loves Springsteen but not Bocelli, whom I love with the unvarying strength of the summer sun, will be home alone.

I predict he'll eat well under the minimum daily requirement of vegetables and more pizza than anyone would recommend. He will watch so much calcio his brain might ooze out of his ears. He'll listen to a constant stream of music, as I suspect he's not too fond of silence.

I will come home to a relatively organized house but a really messy home office, papers strewn everywhere. And piles of smelly laundry. He'll forget to water the yard.

I wonder if he'll feel the weight of the spaces I leave empty. If he'll come home and shout a greeting despite knowing there is no one there, like I do. If he'll stick to his side of the bed or stretch out. (He'll use all the pillows. That's for sure.) If he'll prefer to read than to watch television (I guess it depends on the sports programming.)

He'll finish his big fat book and I won't be there to witness him proving me wrong (I told him it would take him a year to finish it.) He'll use my bathroom to shower, but his body wash, because he refuses beauty products that are not specifically designed for the male species. He'll forget where he left things, like his slippers, and he'll wish that I was around to tell him where they are. (Hmmm. I should have hid them.)

He might secretly enjoy looking at his computer screen for 18 hours straight, free of interruptions. Finish the ice cream. Leave things that belong in the fridge out on the kitchen counter. Refuse to unload the dishwasher.

I hope he misses me, but I hope he doesn't get lonely. I hope he discovers what a pleasure his company is. I think so, anyway.