Adriana.K.Maxwell
Listen to the rain, the rush of wind around the house, hot tea steaming my face, heavy soft blankets
Every time I pull the knife through, the dull wood curls away showing bright grain. The robin I left behind, in my father's workshop, as we went around the world, left but not forgot. I remember, scratching the design out with pencil, screwing it tight into the vise, and filing, and filing, and filing. Occasionally, I would run out to pick dandelions, turn rocks over rolly-pollies and worms, or to escape the loud noise of the saw. But I would come back. And then we left and it waited for me, with the string of holed shells that I found at Riverfront Park, in the corner of the old kitchen cabinets relegated to the shop, locked in with all the rubbermaid totes of clothes and toys and old homework and our bunk beds dismantled against the wall. But I never forgot. And when my world felt overturned, when I wept into my father's sweater, I came back to it. Sometimes, the best thing to stop crashing is creating something with your hands. To make something and put something good and right back into the world. To breathe with every shaving. It is not how I would make it now. The head is out of proportion. But it came before I could carry reference pictures in my pocket. It was only a memory of my favorite bird, cheerfully hopping around after the rain, cocking their heads to peer for worms. And there's a goodness into coming back into completion. And a physical reminder and meditation that my Maker is not done either.
Treat yourself a little softer, step outside, just a moment out your door to breathe new air, stretch your back up, drop your shoulders down, and let yourself breathe.
The chair is empty now. I sit on the floor, bent over my beads and string, hunched over, head by my knee.
The pulse of my heart in my wrist, the pulse of the oceans pulled back and forth, earth's crust floating and crashing on magma, the dance of the planets, the rowing pili of cells in my bloodstream, the tensing of carbon and oxygen through green leaves, the opening and closing of color in octopus on the sandy ocean floor, the rhythm of the gongs as we dance, tapis tails waving behind us, a sea of rice whirled by the wind, the shursh of pebbles rolled by the edge of Lake Michigan, the lengths of light hitting in just the right way, the screech of swing chains in an evening playground, one trumpet player playing "Taps" at sunset, the rumble of the tires as you lean your head against the car window and sag into your seatbelt, as the stars come out quietly and fireflies are living glitter at the edge of the cornfields, sand still between your toes, warmth of the sun will be a red-pink skin memory tomorrow, and your body sleep-floats on waves murmuring. In everything, there is music.
Ring around the rosie, pocket full of posies, Mary fell and won't get up, the fairies went and took her. Now there's only mushrooms where the children used to tread.
Feather soft, sliding through the sky, pillowing clouds, freedom rising, comfort and peace to move gently
The journey may be long, but we have a goal. Our flag shivers in the wind as we trudge ever closer to the mountain, dragon fire still far enough to look like a candle's flame.
Garden growing deep and thick, little caterpillar inching up towering tangles of stems and overlapping leaves
The ice is settled on the windowpane, dripping into icicles, hot tea and heavy blankets kind of day, for cozy settling and long books
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