An essay I wrote last Spring:
Real Live
I’m going to write a real live essay. It will breathe. It will have fire in its belly and its voice will rise up over the page. You might be shocked or surprised or a little confused by how easily it floats between the worlds of the living and the non. It will have a heartbeat.
First though I’m going to make some scones. My stomach is growling and I haven’t eaten anything yet this morning. The scones won’t take long. I have a recipe. I have ingredients; butter, milk, flour, a borrowed egg, some sugar and the healthy kind of baking powder. Hold on for a second while I mix the cold butter in with my hands. This is the only way to do it. Rolling the chunks of hard butter between your fingers in the dry mix. Pastry knives are a myth for suckers. Every recipe tells you to cut the butter in with knives but that is just a good way to get a whole bunch of flour on the counter. Clean hands are always better than dull knives.
While I wait a few minutes for the scones to bake there’s a song that came on the radio that I want to look up. It sounds pretty simple. I just want to see what the chords are and maybe play it a little to see if it sounds as good when I sing it. It might sound too sappy if I sing it. That’s the only problem with having a woman’s voice. I’ve washed the butter and flour from my hands and my fingers feel a little new - cold and stiff like the butter. Dry like paper.
This essay will be sun-warmed and moon-cooled. It will sing its own song in its own key with its very own rhythm. It will not wait for permission to dance.
What’s that noise out on the porch? The wood is cold and damp from the rain last night but where the sun shines steam is rising from the ground. The poppies are so happy in their pots after the gentle soaking rain. They are shining and sparkling and very perky. Half of the yellow ranunculus are beaten and sagging but a few have just opened this morning - standing straight and tall and open to the world. Let me just take a moment to open myself in the same way.
This essay will live heart-open to the world. It will show courage and strength without any loss of sensitivity.
God dammit the scones are burned on the bottom! I lost track of the time looking at the flowers and listening to the birds singing. Better make some fake coffee. Real coffee would be such a treat it might make up for the black bottomed scones but it’s too toxic for me. I can’t hang. Put the water on to boil and make the best of this situation. Fake coffee, black bottomed scones, beautiful flowers on the porch, fire in the wood stove, birds singing outside, warmed fingers and chilly toes. Life is good.
I really need to start writing - but the scones are so fluffy and warm! Eaten with butter, fake coffee and an orange, it really is a treat. The house is warm and the fire is crackling and smoldering in the wood stove. Makua has been giving me the eye for a good five minutes, trying to eat my scone. He has already had his morning meal, but is always in the mood for baked goods. My kind of cat.
I guess I forgot about that song but I can’t write while I’m digesting anyway so I might as well look it up now. Who is this artist? Where is he from? Did he write this song? Oh shit I just wasted an hour in a google wormhole. How did I end up google image searching plastic trash islands in the Pacific Ocean? Ok I need to get up and stretch a little bit - get the blood flowing.
This essay will have legs. It will strut. It will run up and down the block and its sweat will smell like what it ate for dinner. The essay will have hunger. It won’t shy away from a challenge.
Alright, now that I’m feeling all stretched out and warmed up I’d better get back to writing. Just sit right down over here and - the dishes. I’ve got to wash the dishes from breakfast before I forget. I’m really trying to be better about cleaning the kitchen right after I use it. I feel bad about asking B to clean up her mess last night even though it had been sitting untouched for two days. I need to follow my own rules - leave a clean space for the next person. How do scones and coffee create so many dirty dishes? Where did all these come from?
Doing the dishes is a meditative experience for me. I stand with my feet spread out wide and my sleeves rolled up. First I scrub them with a soapy scrubber, then I rinse them and arrange them in the drying rack by size and shape, getting them to settle down in the most space conscious way. I’ve always liked the look of a dish rack with not-too-many dishes in it. It seems like the kind of person with not-too-many dishes in their dish rack really knows how to get things done gradually and with a sense of purpose rather than urgency. They don’t wait until the sink is full or the counters piled up. That’s the kind of person I’d like to be someday. It hasn’t happened yet. At least not with any notable regularity.
This essay will do the dishes whenever the fuck it wants to.
Alright. Dishes are done, body feels good - fed and stretched - what time is it?
CRAP!
Shit, I have to pick M up from school in ten minutes! I’m still in my pajamas! How did this happen? Is that clock even right? Did we ever change it after daylight savings? Ok, no it’s right. Crap crap crap. Run downstairs, pull back hair, brush teeth, wash face and armpits, change clothes. What should I wear? Is it raining or sunny? Half sunny? Oh who cares! Go, go, go! Ok, get my bag of school stuff, I will read later while she does homework. Check purse for keys. Don’t forget to unplug cell phone from the wall charger near the front door. Shoes! Find shoes! Ok, out to the car, back out of the driveway. I will be 3 or 4 minutes late but that’s ok. Good thing I live so close to the school and mountain roads don’t have traffic.
This essay will have the kind of palpability that comes with reality. It will have layers and transparency. Like life, it won’t necessarily be easy to read. It will show you things about yourself. It will engage.
The open road. Green fields with the brightness that only comes after soft spring rain. Happy cows. Tall, thick oak trees craning over on all sides trying to touch the ground with their outermost branches. I miss the fields of mustard greens where I grew up. Sonoma in the springtime is all fields of bright warm yellow where it’s not staked with vineyards. Happy Valley on the other hand will show you pockets of paradise nestled in the canyons and green tree-dense hillsides. From the car you can see people working in their gardens. They’re making repairs to green houses and chicken coops. They are digging in the rain-softened earth. They are cooking the beds with compost and chicken manure before they tuck their seeds in for the summer. They are alive with the newness of springtime. They are living.
