Right now, I am sitting in Dillon, MT at one of my favorite coffee shops. It seems like it’s been three years since I’ve actually stopped here and had a coffee and a cookie. I’m a cookie fiend…it’s one of my demons. My sweet tooth is one of my demons; I always play it off like I am an undeniably unwavering healthy eater, but that’s just a front and a lie. I love baked goods, I’m addicted to them, and anyone who loves me and knows me well would tell you that.
I forgot how comforting it is to roll into a small town where nobody knows you and just sit down at a coffee shop or a whiskey bar and write. It also seems like my head hasn’t been clear in a few days. Small town time is good for that. That’s why I’m headed for Idaho and family to ski and play in my favorite mountains. Take some ballet classes and guitar lessons. Just be. I had to stop here to be on another Google+ interview for my dream job as an editor. Karma is funny…something has to suck in order for something better to happen. Unless you’re on a karma roll…then it might seem as if everything is awesome for a really long time. I was on one of those until this weekend. All you can do sometimes is acknowledge how you feel, hope others are happy, love and be compassionate, and of course, eat a cookie.
And since last year, thanks to someone who is the most special and sacred love in my life, I have been reading–no studying word for word–poetry by Michael Blumenthal.
So yesterday, I gave you a poem that churns my heart like butter. This one does too. It will always mean the world to me and remind me of the purest love I have ever felt–still feel and always will feel–and the most beautiful places we ever explored together and will explore together in the mountains and within our souls. Here you go:
Inside the hollowness that is bone
and that hollowness that is us, blue
is how it has always been and how
it always will be: the blue acres
of flesh we have traveled in search
of the propinquitous night, the blue
hours of morning before the mist rises
over the lake, the blue gaze of the sycamore
over the empty fields in February. Now,
it is dark and my bones open over the blue
sheets of the bed to welcome the night.
I gaze into the pale green of your eyes
and see that I, too, am turning blue like
the graceful dead in their blue parlors
of silk and sweet dreaming. Last night,
the swallows prancing over the fields
were blue, and in the star-swift glide
of sky over the clouds, I realized
we end as we began, and moved along:
blue baby, blue sky, sweet blue grief,
the deep blue of no more breathing.
Tempera on paper or oil on canvas,
it is the blue envelope of the voice
that says I love you, and when the bones
open out into their pelvic dust, the blue
that is always blue is always there.
I love you.