She leads a lovely, rather ordinary life. And, on most days she likes it like that. She is contented. More than that...she hopes that someday, when her children are older, they will know that this period of time with them has been filled with richness. Indeed, they are her lifeblood.
Her best poetry comes to her when she is doing the everyday tasks of caring for her family - preparing dinner, tackling yet another mountain of laundry, or catching a glimpse of her children playing outside. Even in rare snatches, it arrives within her head amidst the cacophony of sound emanating from the rear seats of her minivan.
There are times when she knows the day is not going well by 9am. When she has trouble formulating a simple grocery list. Something that is as familiar as sleep and brushing her teeth. And then, while in the aisle...stands there in a swoon, fondling the wine bottles as if they are close friends. The labels lilting her way ...vanilla, smooth, soft, velvety finish... A song to her tone deaf starved heart. And ...later, when she drives into the gas station, pulls up to the gas pump, gets out, and realizes that the gas cap is on the other side. Her mind has traveled further than the much needed tank.
Yes... sometimes, despite her children's undeniable lusciousness, she wishes to sling back a Jack and Coke at noon... declaring to all and sundry that IT'S JACK O'CLOCK! INDEED. She's ready for her own whiskey a go GO. Perhaps, if she really knew what was going on in the neighboring houses, she would find kindred spirits in her need for ...space. Room to breathe.
Days when the loud hum of the stove hood's fan is welcoming instead of intrusive. The noise, a usual annoyance, her friend. For it closes out the nearby shrill cant of Diego as she fixes dinner. Or...it is Word Girl? The DIN. Beating into her like clubs wielded by neanderthals. Yes, white noise...YOU are welcome here.
The greatest irony is that there is no one to blame but herself. Unfortunately. Her world of laundry piles, meals to make, schedules to keep ...are all in a disarray of her own making. Because. She hasn't scheduled herself any time. And she is a snarling, bitchy mess within. Occasionally oozing out around her edges.
What saves her is the blank page. Sometimes it taunts--> daring her to throw down words. Sometimes it lets her slide keyboard strokes across its snowy surface. And sometimes it stares, bored, yawning... into a silent void. Yet, whatever the blank page, she usually cannot leave it so. For it feeds her. Whether it is a self-conscious rant or careless phrase or hours spent upon one word, it is enough for today...
***"Shaken and Stirred" Painting by Chuck Gumpert.