If Only

If only what was said could be taken back, I could sleep at night.  Completely taken back as if the words were never uttered, never broke the barrier between thought and vocalization.  If only.

Julien May 29, 2022

If only what was done could be undone, I could move forward.  Completely undone as if the deed never provoked an outcome, a clean slate.  If only.

If only the thought could be lost before it sullied my heart.  Forgotten before it was acknowledged, never to leave its stain of discord on my psyche. If only.

If only, I could be a vehicle for harmony and peace.  Never to sow sadness or anger or criticism.  To be a nurturing soul to all I encounter.  If only.

If only, I could get to the core me, I would be perfect.   Radiating love and hope, a person of perfection in this imperfect world.  If only.

If only, I could return to the beginning.  Without scar or wound. Prejudice and temper, ego unfettered.   If only.

If only I could return to that state of grace of the newborn – one of wonder, content, suckling only love.  If only.

Slippery, slimy, gross, disgusting cold, wet pasta

I have written before about my dislike of vacuuming.  It’s not just dislike, it’s a visceral hatred that suffuses all of me and makes my hair stand on end.  Inevitably, the machine will clog, the belt will break, and I will end up cursing.  Every time.  Every single time.  For now, and always and forever.  This is true.  I no longer fight it.  I try to roll with the flow.

Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash

I am also not fond of putting laundry away.  I don’t mind doing laundry so much, but right outside my laundry room door is an 11-foot old oak church pew.  Fresh from the dryer clothes seem to end up there.  And even if I do fold them, they tend to stay there.  I often dress from the church pew in the hallway that is right in front of my windowed kitchen door.  This is flirting with disaster.  I am someday going to flash somebody.

Dusting also annoys me.  I live on a dirt road.  I have 3 dogs.  I have laundry sitting on the church pew.  I have dust.  And it accumulates at warp speed.  I often say I’m running a retirement for dust.  Just as soon as I carry some of it out to the bin, a new crop arrives to take its place.  It’s maddening.  I can wield a can of Pledge for hours and admire my sparkling furniture and shelves, but by the next morning, it looks as if weeks have passed since anything has seen a dust rag.

Suffice it to say there is not much I like in the vein of housecleaning aside from making up a bed with clean linen sheets and a freshly aired duvet.

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When all it took was a cupcake. . .




What does it take to feel those.  They came naturally when I was younger, but not so much now.  Have I seen too much?  Done too much?  Am I jaded?

There are still some experiences guaranteed to bring it on. Bliss is found in the first warm day in the garden, muddy hands, muddy knees, crystalline blue skies, and the soft air of an Appalachian spring. 

Joy.  To be joyous may require a light heart.  Perhaps I have too many worries for joy.  But no, my grandson brought me joy.  Holding him, time stopped and it was just me and Julien.  Time stopped.  The moment.

And Ecstasy…the birth of my son.  Perhaps the only time of my life that I was truly ecstatic.  It’s a state of being that suffuses the whole body and the whole mind.  Nothing else in that moment but the sensation of unfettered happiness at the cellular level.  The moment stretching on and on.

But remember when something simple could provoke these states?  Perhaps they are side effects of youth – states of being easy to slide into before the world beat us down.

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I am dancing as fast as I can.

Photo by Ahmad Odeh on Unsplash

Wayne Dyer said, “When you dance, your purpose is not to get to a certain place on the floor. It’s to enjoy each step along the way.

I’m dancing as fast as I can.  The tempo may kill me. My feet lift and fall, lift and fall, heel, toe, do si do, step two three and twirl. 

I’m dancing as fast as I can, don’t ask me to juggle.  Now is not the time.  Dip, sway, do the hustle, all fifty-seven steps.  I can’t stop, the music still plays and plays and plays…like an organ grinder with a monkey I dance.

Perhaps I should seek coins from those watching.

I’m dancing as fast as I can, skirt belling and swirling and tangling between my legs.  I stumble now and again, but I’m dancing as fast as I can.

No time for chores, for downtime, for respite, I am dancing as fast as I can,  The cha cha, the foxtrot, a stately waltz all without a partner. Alone.

Nietzche said, “And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.

I can hear the music.  Can they?  Am I insane?

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