Listening

Earlier, as I left work much earlier than expected, I felt like I’d been given a gift. An unexpected most-of-a-day. I could do with it whatever I wanted. I felt light, buoyant. As I drove away from town and took care of a few moths that had been flitting around my head lately, I gradually became aware that there were butterflies there, as well as moths. But they darted so fast, I could only get a sense of their presence and color—not shape, or meaning, or anything else.

What was out there, just at the edge of my awareness? An almostness. Liminality, some call it. Something was there, flirting with me, teasing me, grabbing my attention and then running away with it, laughing out of my reach.

I came home and changed clothes, shedding my work self. I took my dog to the woods, to run by the river and smell the happy, verdant, freshly watered undergrowth. I felt the sun on my skin, felt my chest rising and falling, but didn’t feel the butterflies. Where have they gone? What did they want to tell me?

There was an excitement in the air around me earlier, almost tangible. Part of my physical energy. The promise of something coming, something good. Adventures, challenges, surprises, ahas. The butterflies were the harbingers. But now here I am, technology on my lap, lawnmower noises dominating the airwaves. And the butterflies have flown.

Butterflies, I’m listening. I’m still. You can land on me. I won’t run. You can light on my arm, and gently wave your wings, drying the dew in the sun. I’ll be still. I’ll listen. I’m here.

But I think maybe you can’t invite the butterflies. It has to be their idea. I can be open, stay open, and hope they come back. But they’ll only come back if they want to. And only stay if I’m ready for them, not distracted, still.

So instead I’ll let it go. I’m here, butterflies, if you want to come back. But I won’t be waiting for you. Instead I’ll change my clothes again—put on my visitin’ clothes—and get back in the car. I’ll drive down the road to visit my faraway mama.

And maybe she’ll know who I am.

Head & Heart

Today I got a phone call I've been expecting.

My sister called to say that the rest home said it's time.
Mama needs to move down the hill to the nursing home--
she's lost her natural caution about the parking lot,
and nearly collided with the garbage truck,
in her eagerness to see it.

"It's so big and loud!"

It would have been good for her, probably,
to have been able to finish up that way.
But not good for the rest home.
Or the truck driver.

Above the neck, I'm happy about this transition.
She'll get more care, probably, down the hill.
Maybe there will be an activities director that she can enjoy,
down there.
She has a good friend there already.
There will be more to do.

She wants a change.
Every time I talk to her, she tells me
she's not happy where she is.
She wants to move.
She wants to be "homeward bound."
This is a step in that direction.

But my heart's not so sure.

This will likely be the last place she ever lives.
And though she may not act like it,
she's still the only mama I ever had.
Or ever will.
And I miss her.

In my heart.
And in my head.