Put

her

away

quietly.

Slowly back into

her tent. Do not look. Pull the wool

gently over her senseless body, then tip-toe

out. Damp ground strewn with purity's

debris spreads beneath

the rainbow.

Promise:

no

more.

“We must love each other, respect each other and cherish our history and our future together.” 
          --Donald J. Trump, August 12, 2017


These histories we cannot cherish--don't
forget. You have to hoist Anchises and
his statues onto your aching shoulders. You won't
exactly leave the flames; this burning land
churns inside your flesh. You will ignite
it everywhere you go, with torches raised
to carry on and on, with faces white
and trembling--unless
you break the rhythm
like old estate sale china,
sweep up the pieces before the neighbor
kids get hurt, and maybe dare
to write something new.

We've

left

Egypt:

pungent roots

and goads. We still sweat,

And the salt now tastes like freedom,

streaming down our sunburned backs in gleaming stripes, but thirst

keeps our eyes on the pyramids.

We've learned denial

is more than

a state

of

mind.

Unravel in the quiet underneath
the earth's plush blanket, nestled in the soil.
Let go. Unclench your fingers and your teeth,
and let the rain unwind this mortal coil.
Peel away the husk, unleash the germ,
in silence sweet as dying, dark as sleep,
waiting through the full unspoken term;
you must entrust to spring what you would keep.

You

are

at war.

Remember

that the battle lines

are within you: shifting, pulsing,

churning through your veins. You cannot do this on your own.

Allies are everywhere, thank God,

and you must find them.

This is all

the hope

there

is.

Recipe

Garlic is magical, and its pungent odor is wafting through our home like fairy dust.

Stinky fairy dust.

Cloves are also magical, but I caught the little dust-fairy before he got that package open.

There is so much magic all around us, and we spend most of our life trying to figure out what on earth do with it all.

He tosses the bag of peppercorns. I catch it like a beanbag before it breaks open, and tell his big brother to move his dancing before a fight breaks out.

I tuck the spices back into the cupboard, and gather everyone around to read the stories that will show us how to combine the wild unruly ingredients of life.

We are watching the Cosby show, right now.

It is so, SO good.

I watch soberly now, and we talk about it. We talk about the good, and we talk about how everything isn't always as it seems. But we keep watching, because as a family it's so important to learn how to drive each other crazy, love each other anyway, and laugh about it all.

We watch the ads, too, because it's important to learn how to think well about them. We laugh at the audacity of the accelerating heart beat in the background of the refinancing ad. The manipulation isn't really funny, but laughter helps us stay steady in our own bio-rhythms. Polyrhythms are fun, but you have to pay attention.

Ad-watching has become more interesting since I've started selling Young Living. The air freshener ads are downright terrifying when you spend all day talking and writing about the effects of fragrances. 

Cancer in a jar, 50% off. Your guests will be so impressed.

(And here I go with the fear. It's unavoidable: there be dragons. Breathe slow and deep, lean into the poly-rhythms. Laughter helps so much.)

Just now there was an ad for a very scientific skin-care product, and mercifully, this one was trying to be funny. The skin cream promised to solve some teen problems, but not others, because, hahahaha, that would be ridiculous. We are all on guard, and we know better than to expect too much.

I used that stuff back in the day. It didn't do much except dry out my skin. I'm sure it's helped some people, but good nutrition does a better job for me.  And good nutrition also happens to address all those other issues too, helping with mood and and focus and friendships as well.

The gifts of God are too good to be true. What is there for us to do but to join with Sarah in her gladness, and laugh?

And

when

you wake

up, tucked in

between the pages

of some dark novel, know that these

are the stories that glitter with courage and glory,

are the stories that you read through

and through, over and

again, and

you are

their

light.

Be

side

the still

waters, swept

enraging currents,

newly ever-cycling eddies:

I cannot walk through this valley, and I fear to swim.

Ground unearthed into this churning,

the water's surface

the only

place left

to

stand.

One

word

forward,

two words back:

Our stories untell

themselves. Words slip off our tongues, back

into our throats. They stick there while we try to make up

the story of our unmaking.

By the time we are

through, I'm not

sure who

we'll

be.