I Have Forgotten How to Write

Journal snatch, June 22nd 2021

I have forgotten how to write. And outside the finches are building a nest above a security light, trying to teach me how to remember. Straw by straw. Word by word. I have forgotten how to dance. And outside the wind is prodding the leaves, reminding them they have a duty to eat the sun. I chuckle and my toes stretch, I want to whirl into the sound of the oncoming traffic of the stars. I have forgotten how to cook. And my husband is patient, forgiving, and a very good chef. A wonderful recipe for never learning to cook again. I eat the time that is given to me, and hope one day that something will shine out of my fingertips, glow out of my eyes, pour forth from my lips like a banner of welcome. Reminding the world and everyone, everything in it, that we are all honored guests, and it is my privilege to share a certain measure of space and time with each of you at this banquet. Even though I forget this sometimes.

Yes. Sometimes my heart grows heavy as a sack of potatoes, my eyes dim like old windows, my legs drag unwillingly, I cannot find my balance, and every small thing in my way has the face of a formidable mountain. But even in such times, I know. This life of mine is blessed.

Once-upon-a-time blest. Fairies-mobbing-the-bassinet-dropping-boons-like-flowerbombs-on-my-sleeping-head blest. Blessings that will outlive this body. Blessings that will wake me at midnight, shimmering like Northern Lights, setting the shadows dancing. Blessings that will not rest even when I lose faith – blessings that work within me while I’m fast asleep– like the shoemaker’s elves. Blessings that guide the nameless work I am here to do, but that I couldn’t possibly do– not in a million years–alone.