WONDER 06.29.13

"Have you ever shot a gun?" he asked, his own pistol pressed to his palm with a casual grip, his thumb toying the trigger. His belt hung low like a real cowboy. His hat pitched forward over the forehead, washing gentle shadows across his smooth face, but at least one eye was in full sun and cast in wonder.

"No," I said, "I haven't.

"Do you want to?" He sought only one answer; it happened to be the truthful one.

"I do. I want to learn to hunt animals." The eyes widened to encompass his entire being. They were as alive as fully-cured compost, and the color of chicory wilting in the rain. His hair shone like a field of California-poppies, and curled out from under the braided straw. Releasing the tension of sheer awe, he shot a couple of rounds out the open window.

"What kind of gun would you get?!" He asked, pulling the trigger again.

I thought for a moment. "Well, a rifle, I suppose." I crossed tiny sleeve over tiny sleeve, straightened collars and smoothed towels into even piles. Laundry is my favorite: freshening the soiled, making neat out of a pile of wrinkles, and placing finished stacks in drawers of perfect dimensions; my blood is light by the end of the clear and finite chore.

He stood up straight, forming the question in his posture. "Why wouldn't you want a pistol?"

Indignant hands on narrow child hips. The gun in his hand went slightly limp, but he shot a few more times, this time at his little brother.

"Because those guns are used to hurt people," I said. "I don't want to hurt people, I want to hunt animals, hunt them to eat them. I want to learn how to shoot them quick, and how to butcher and cure them."

"When do you think you'll get it?" He asks. Indignation turns again to wonder, and his eight years suddenly seem like a vast opportunity.

"I don't know," I reply, sliding a sheet of paper under the crayon trapped between a two-year-old palm and the table. "I'm not ready to own a gun. It's a big responsibility. It can be a dangerous thing if not used in a very safe way."

As I load finished piles into the laundry basket, I tell him that he is not allowed to aim at me or his brother while I'm around. The 'you're not the boss in this house' is easily tamed with a mischievous evil eye and a firm, closing statement. When I leave for the day, I realize that I am proud of this conversation. Proud of knowing where I stand with guns and food and children's play, and proud that I can tuck little nuggets of perspective into these tiny brains, just by telling my truth.

And to an eight-year-old, the truth is wondrous. To know his nanny's real feelings and opinions is all he wants. The questions never begin and never stop, and I am grateful.

WONDER 06.28.2013

She was a woman of distinction and a fine palate for the more refined things in life.  She liked her heels high, her drinks overpriced and her outings to be lavish. She was that woman from NYC who didn’t even see you when you walked by. Her brim was low and her shades were dark and why the fuck would she care about you?

You, you were an honest hard working, family loving, baseball obsessed, normal Norman.  You had just left the grocers.  A wife’s to do list on your smartphone. Milk, bread, eggs and tampons. Thank God that was on your list.  Three under 5 was plenty.  Hell, thats why you work so hard. You like your beer cold and cheap, your company with a bit of sleaze and your kids out of your hair.  Hey, you’re tired. We get it.

But on a dime She turned around as if to retrieve a forgotten necessity too important to buy another of.  You were flagging down a cab. She walked past you and you pointedly felt the intoxicating smell of her fill your pants. Fleeting moment. Fleeting thought. The cab hauls ass up to the curb you slid across the cracked leather seat with your wares in your lap.

“Take us to …..“ Said a crisp articulate hollow voice that trailed off at the end to a murmur.

There she was. In your cab. Take us? Looking around the cab it was easy to tell “us” was you and her.  The cab takes off in the direction dictated by the classy broad.  

“What’s in your sack?”

“Milk....Bread.....T-t-tampons......”

“Oh! Splendid....I don’t think I have bread at home.” You start to get the feeling that she doesn’t care where you were going or why you have tampons or even who you are. She placed her feather like fingers over your high thigh and and with an unexpected strength she squeezed you and asked. “ You don’t mind if I have some of your bread with my supper, do you?”

Since words weren’t flowing freely and your brain was not making the connections as to why this beautiful creature was talking to you, you only shook your head no.

She made small talk with you and with the cab driver all the while gripping higher and higher on your thigh.  Her smells and whimsical motions making you more and more drunk on her.  

The cab slowed down and you looked out the dirty window. Upper East Side......She brought you to her house no doubt.  She paid the cab driver and she reached across you, turning her swollen low cut dress into your face, to open the door.

She said something but the words come out muffled.

“Hahah! Darling....After you!” You obediently did as you were asked and she took the grocery bag from your hand, left it in the car, and took out the bread leaving behind the rest. She lead you into the very tall building and into the elevator. When the doors slid closed she didn’t say a word. She just looked at you. She smiled. You smiled. You knew what was about to happen.  A brief thought grazed your mind about your wife and kids and quickly your desires for the unknown took over.  The elevator opened and an older somewhat balding man in a nice shirt and a black apron greeted you and your glorious host that has left you speechless.  

“Peter, how was your day?” Genuinely seeming to give a shit about her butler’s going ons she turns her attention from you to him.

“I’ve had a swell day.  I see you brought supper.” He smiled and gestured toward her hand. She gave him the loaf of light bread.

“Yes, something new, I thought, would be a nice treat for us....” White bread was ‘new’ for this lady...Wow...she had it good, you thought. “I’ll be taking our friend to the guest quarters to prepare him for dinner.”

“Very good. I shall prepare the kitchen to your liking.” She smiled sweetly and gently kissed Peter’s cheek in thanks and still with your hand in her’s she took you to the guest room.

She asked you to take off your clothes and lay them on the tiled floor. She went into the bathroom and started the shower.  

“Come, love....I’d like you to be nice a clean...wash away the...day.  I’d like to watch to make sure you clean every part just right....If you don’t mind.” You don’t mind. Her smell...that scent...anything she’d ask you’d do. You stepped into the 9 spout shower room and she handed you a cloth with a sterile smelling soap.  She sat on a stool and instructed  you where to wash.  She wanted you to wash your legs 3 times. Her sweet honest darling face grinned and you knew she was dragging things out to make this come to an erotic perfect ending that was sure to be the best thing you’ve ever had.

She told you that you did a very good job.  You stepped out of the shower with all your clean massive glory standing before her.  She walked around you inspecting and smelling you. Her breath on your neck, the soft pillow of lips kissed your skin...almost as if to savor or taste you.

The door opened with no warning and you quickly cover your hard on and shouted “What the hell!?”

“Peter! You’ve startled our guest.”  She pouted her lips then turned to you and smiled. “No matter, it’s time for dinner and I’m starving. Are things ready for cooking?” Still beaming at you and your clean skin she ushered you to the kitchen. Again you are taken with her angelic presence, disregarding the manservant.

“Should I get dressed?” You found your tongue.. She seemed to have lost her’s since she doesn’t respond. Then it happened too fast.

She pressed you against the wall and kissed you deep and hard holding your arms out and firmly held her body to yours. Your eyes closed tight and you grind against her pressure. Her warm mouth and tiny figure wrapped up around you and you lose track of the world around you. She steps back and looks at you.  You have been restrained by Peter. Your wrists and ankles skillfully bound to the wall with leather belts. Suddenly her affect changed and she rinsed her mouth out with Listerine and spit it into the sink with a look of disgust.

“Very nicely done, my sweet.” Praising Peter’s work she walks to the counter picks up a power tool and hands it to Peter.  You scream and they giggle.

“Shall we have thigh tonight?”

“Yes, love, I was thinking we could use the bread and make sandwiches.”

“Yes my lady, Wonderbread....a fine choice to complement cheap meat.”

Peter tightly wrapped a tourniquet around your upper thigh. You’re screaming that you have a family and a job and a life. She’s not there anymore. It’s just you and Peter and the saw which is now in to your muscle. Taking your leg to the counter Peter feeds it into a deli meat slicer and sliced about a pound of leg.  Quickly he fried each piece on the Viking stovetop and seasoned the meat with a bit of this and a bit of that.

“Thank you for bringing the bread to supper. So generous of you.” After giving you thanks, Peter walks through the swinging door into the dining room where She smiled and waved to you. She shouted out to you through the still swinging door.

“See you later! I’m sure you are just devine! I’ll let you know!! Good night love!”

Wonder 06.27.2013

Laying there on the counter, carefree. It does not even realize the power it has over me right now. Its snazzy purple case, its lightness in my hand. It does not realize how important it is to me.

I wonder, will it ring? Will there be good news? Or will…

Wait, it’s ringing…

“You make me smile like the sun,
Fall out of bed,
Sing like a bird,
Dizzy in my head,
spin like a record crazy on a Sunday night.
You make me dance like a fool,
forget how to breathe,
shine like a gold,
buzz like a bee.
Just the thought of you can drive me wild.
Oh, you make me smile.” (Uncle Kracker – You Make Me Smile)

I love that ringtone, it is the best ringtone I have ever had… wait, the phone is ringing…

I wonder who it is? My heart is beating out of my chest...is this the phone call I have been waiting patiently for; patiently? Yeah right...I have been boiling over with stress waiting. It’s been three weeks I wonder if they've already hired someone. 

Crap, I left the phone upside down I can’t even glance to see if I should answer.

Ok, ok, I’ll pick it up. Damn it! It’s just a follow-up call from my student loan company.

”No nothing’s changed lady. I still don’t have a job and right now you are taking up precious air time.  Yes I will let you know when things change.”

I hang up quickly.

Pacing through the house, I wonder if they tried to call when I was on the phone with that Representative. Crap, I hope that didn't ruin my chances.

It’s ringing again! This could be it… running to the kitchen… “Hello?”

WRONG NUMBER.

Have they picked someone else? Will they even let me know they offered the job to someone else? Will I get a call for an interview? Am I going to have a position in the fall? Are we going to end up having to move? Will my kids be ok with the changes to come? Why can’t I just know now?

I Wonder….

WONDER: 6.26.13

On the second day, I gave in to weeping.
I couldn't help it.
It's not as if I hadn't wondered, often, how I would continue our way of life if he weren't here.

Sometimes my imaginings took me down the path of wonder that brings one to the place of "the emotion aroused by something awe-inspiring, astounding, or marvelous." Yes, in those daydreams I could do it all. Chop Wood, Carry Water and all that. Perhaps, in those dreams, I didn't factor in the felling of trees, the repairing of plumbing, the seemingly endless tasks around this place that require digging, but I was still a badass. I might have even worn a cape.

More often than not, though, my thoughts would be trudging down the darker path, the one that leads to a doubt-laced curiosity. Could I handle it, I wondered? Animals, feathered and not; wet chores as well as the dry; subsistence farming and a full-time job; decent bonfires and car repairs?
No, not really.
Would everything fall apart around me?
Yes, probably. 

When he called to tell me he was on his way to the emergency room and would likely be out of commission for a while, my first instinct was to panic. But...the piglets are coming, the garden extension isn't tilled and we have 90 tomato and pepper plants waiting in the wings, and about three hundred other pressing man projects.

Man projects. I wondered, then, when did I start labeling homestead projects according to gender? How long has it been since we simply fell into roles we never meant to, and just blissed on through it until someone got broken?

He plans; I plant.  I cook; he does the dishes.
He creates spaces, structures and systems; I maintain them.
I pay the bills; he avoids them. He takes care of the animals; I love on them.
I make art; he doesn't because he's too busy making sure our house doesn't fall apart.
He does the dirty work; I tell him where it is. I snuggle; he reads the bedtime story.

On the second day, with his swollen appendage elevated and on ice, I thought about all the times I wondered what I would do if he weren't around. The third time the ducks were in the garden that day when I was in the middle of trying to put out some other kind of fire, I wept and then...I stopped weeping.
No, nothing was going to fall apart around me.
He may be broken, but he's here, and he can teach me, if I'm willing.

On the third day, I ran machines I was previously terrified of and found it to be an empowering experience. The next day, I gave an herbal remedy to the rooster with a sore throat. That was nothing after discovering the bloated chipmunk who had drowned in a bucket and realizing that I couldn't pass that off to anyone but me. I do the dirty work for the next six weeks. Even if it involves maggots and trying not to puke while I slosh fermented rodent stew out to the woods for disposal.

Is there a cape for that?

I wonder...

And no, nothing is going to fall apart around me.

Wonder 06.25.2013

How do flowers know when to bloom?

Where to the clouds go on a sunny day?

Are the stars still twinkling in the daytime?

Her sense of awe and wonder is contagious. I could watch her figure out how things work for hours.

My questions are heavier than hers. Weighed down with years of worry.

When does wonder turn to worry?

When did my questions become so full of concern?

Will I figure out the answers on my own?

She balances me out. She worries about nothing. Her answers come as the world unfolds before her.

Where do snakes live?

Will this rock fly?

Why is rain wet?

Simplicity. Innocence. Fascination. I could learn a lot from her. My years have nothing on her wisdom. All they have left me with is uncertainty.

Am I strong enough?

Am I doing this right?

Is this the right path?

I watch her figure out her questions, answering them along her journey. I draw in a breath and release it, sending my worries out along with it. I take in another. I fill the space with the awe and wonder that flows so freely from her.

Breath in awe. Breath out worry.

Breath out concern. Breath in wonder.

WONDER: 06.24.2013

When I ask my co-worker what's the first thing she thinks about when I say the word 'wonder,' she pauses ever so briefly before replying, "bread." Not the response I was expecting!

For me, wonder is the supermoon tonight. Her belly full, pregnant light...oblivious to Facebook posts bellowing her beauty or articles announcing the arrival and departure (She will not be seen again until August 2014). How many of us have clicked pause on our computertvvideo screens to pause, and wonder at the shadows cast? Houses, porches, verandas shrouded in the night, while upturned faces are musing the sky.

I remember one August in California. I was living in Sonoma County and wanted to see the Perseid meteor shower. Where could I drive above the city lights to view this yearly phenomena? Ahh...secluded Lichau Road. So up and up I drove and then was shocked at the snake of cars park along the road. Seems I wasn't the only one with this brilliant idea. At first I was annoyed. It was crowded and I couldn't find a place to park. Some people had music blasting, a full-on meteor party. A far cry from the quiet evening I had anticipated. But then I thought somehow, whether it was conscious or not, everyone on that hill was responding to the ancient pull of celestial wonder. Much like our ancestors did so long ago, we stand outside and gaze up, up, up at the stars with our questions and insignificance.

Wonder is imagination unleashed. Last summer I've never been happier to work with a wonderful company called Zany Umbrella Circus. It was dress rehearsal. We had spent two weeks as Artists-in-Residence creating a show called HOME and were about to have our first audience--the kids from the local day care center. We were curious to see how they would react for we had been working in seclusion. We were told this would be the first time any of the children had seen a performance in a theater. And so, with no realm of theater etiquette to draw upon, they didn't shy away from vocalizing EVERYTHING they were seeing and feeling. They narrated and commented throughout the entire show. It was great! Instant--pure and honest--feedback. It was exactly what we needed! Afterwards, we did a Q & A. One boy raised his hand and asked, "Was that...umm...was that," (we could see him trying to formulate his young thoughts),  "was that 'magi...'magination?" He couldn't pronounce it, but he recognized it. Yes! Bingo! That was imagination.

Wonder is Nelson Mandela now fighting for breath robbed of him on Robben Island.* For 27 years,  twenty-seven years, you gazed through gray confinement and then walked out to embrace the Rainbow Nation you helped to create behind those bars.

"As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn't leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I'd still be in prison." 

A monumental event for the entire world, for those who believed in justice, peace and reconciliation, I cried that February day in 1990. And marveled at your resilience, courage and strength. But mostly at your ability to love and forgive.

"No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite." 

I wonder, how did you withstand your own extraordinary life? How did you draw upon the well of faith when despair threatened to pull you under? How did you fortify your reserves? It is a burden to be a beacon of light for humanity. It comes with much personal sacrifice. And yet, you have generously given to the world. Your 95th birthday less than a month away, you have given us the breath of your life. We breathe for you now.

*While incarcerated, Nelson Mandela contacted tuberculosis. Needless to say, medical treatment was sub-par for prisoners. 

Wonder 06.23.2013

The shortcut through the Winn Dixie parking lot took us past the dumpster which had sometimes bountied us with lightly bruised apples, recently expired cookies, and fresh cut flowers that were beautiful despite their droop. We had learned that it was always worth a peek.

I was kneeling on the ground, tying a knot in my sneaker, when you tenderly lifted the lid, breaking the 2am silence with a monstrous rusty creak. Your right arm extended to the sky, elbow locked, to hold up the heavy lid. 

“Anything good?” I called to you, as I stood up.

You turned to me with a smile so big that dimples pierced your cheeks-- dimples that were so rare, I forgot you had them. I remember thinking “Oh, this must be good.”

As I approached, you flung the top open with a clang, flooding the dumpster with fluorescent light. You grabbed my hand as we peered inside and watched me as I discovered the cause of your dimples: hundreds of loaves of Wonder Bread, stretching to every corner and at least elbow deep. “I can’t be sure,” you said, “but I think they go all the way down. I think it’s nothin’ but bread.”

We did what any self-respecting punks would do, and we crawled inside. Laying on a wheaty cloud, we traded stories about our grandparents, first loves, first bicycles, and favorite swimming holes. We reluctantly climbed out when we started to yawn, scared of falling asleep and waking up in a dump truck.

You still had dimples when we climbed into your bed. And in the morning we made toast.