Notes on Mondays. (to expand on later)
Today is Monday. It's the day of the week I decide to leave my apartment, by apartment I mean the inside. I know how the clouds look; billowy and easy to associate with something else, like maybe the freeway, or my Monday destination. In other words, I don't have to look forward to the clouds anymore. I have my Mondays.
She helps me with my becoming, and going. The learning how to live again. Or for the first time. Like Mondays. The beginning of the new week.
Like learning how to stick the thread through the needle, with eyes closed. It'll be okay if the needle pricks, it'll be okay if blood drips from your finger to the needle, down the thread, and onto the paper you're sewing together. It's just paper, not a dress you're trying to fix. It's not the dress that needs to be fixed. It's the paper. Or...like learning how to light a match, because sometimes lighting the paper on fire, is easier, smarter, and a faster way to there. And it's okay that the ash blows away.
And Gene Wilder died today. I'm sure it was the last scene of the film, and the idea that a grown person can learn so much from children, that children were the compass from which we measured a fit society, that helped me and so many get through the getting through as a child in a broken world. To dream of responsibility. Because to have responsibility is a privilege.
By the end of the session I took away sadness. I cried from a different place. Because as one door closes, another opens, and we have no idea the years we've hidden behind these so many doors.
I'll open a little canister of buena, pour a tablespoon or more into the container in the glass jar. Warm the water to just before boiling. And answer all of the questions I have on Mondays, by drinking a cup of our tea, by the jar.
The ability to respond. Is a privilege that can be overwhelming sometimes. But I'm tired of being sad. So I have Mondays for now, but I'm also readying to let go of even those.