Just another day

I woke up this morning with sparks firing in my brain, like at the end of a live wire severed in an electrical storm, flipping wildly about in the street, stopping traffic and killing service to hundreds of homes. I tried to return to sleep but could not, thus here am I. "Write. write", the inner voice said, so I will write. I do feel so very blessed to be on Earth for yet another day. I have noticed as I go about my daily things, so unimportant really, little tasks, supplying the refrigerator, stocking the cupboards, paying bills and seeking vintage, always and forever seeking vintage, that I feel like "Wow, I am a part of this! I get to dance in this dance and play with all of these folks, animals, trees and rocks. Good God, how special is that?!" I have fed the squirrels, the rascally fellows, and the birds, and turned on the indoor light by the finch habitat. The looping video of the California coastline waves and wildlife is doing it's thing creating magic, if set at just the right volume, of transporting me to the mornings I woke up from sweetest slumber on the screened in porch of my grandmothers cabin at Spirit Lake Iowa, where I was gifted to go for only two weeks a year during my somewhat sad childhood. Those times are for another story, to be told at a later date. I did not feel this way for so long after Gannon's passing, so the feeling is very profound to me now. I used to wake with an extreme sense or foreboding that, I suppose, only a mother who has lost a child or experienced some great life trauma can know.

The mind is a treasury of memories waiting patiently to be tapped. I have the coziest bed, fluffy pillows and layers of warm vintage blankets and Morgan, my plush stuffed dog. I pray often for those not gifted with the same...always feeling that no matter how the day goes, I have this to return to....warm sweet coziness and safety. Around my bed are pictures given by my children and freinds, the Eiffel Tower in the 50s from Ant, a downtown mural by Ari, a Mexican religious scenic mini-cabinet from Shira, an antique elephant bank from Gannon... many things that matter just to me...a photograph of an eclipse of the moon from 1938 and a little shelf where I keep books in favor at the moment, a cabinet with a door showing a dragon scene burned into it by Ari...a card Ant gave me full of loving words, a book of amazing Australian scenes from Chris...just two walls for me, my sweet corner, with the other two walls hung gloriously in vintage, the trappings of my life, waiting for my further attention. Beckoning, but not in a mean way...just there, waiting patiently for me to photograph them and put them in the spotlight where they will be in their glory for a few days to months, looked upon as possible cherished things, too enticing to let slip by....Do you suppose that they have a secret knowledge, at least on a molecular level, of their true longing for that station? We thinking they are just inanimate objects, these draping cloth fabrics fashioned years ago, worn maybe once or many times, by those that have passed from Earth's rich experiences. How can anyone not be attracted to owning and wearing them yet another time? I go out into the hall, outside my bed chamber, and there be shelves filled with yet more vintage beauties. To the right is my vintage studio, with shelves on all sides and my mannequin, sweet friend that she is, forever waiting for my trans formative talents bringing her to life on the internet, different hair styles and poses with all the lovelies presented so perfectly on her. Do the atoms dancing in her structure not delight in their small part, lovingly showing the glory of times gone by? I take a break and feed the squirrels nuts on the deck...listening to Rosie next door talking skittish Spanish to a friend on the phone. She likes to sweetly sing as she does her mothering homemaker tasks. Birds are singing inside and out. I come back to write more, and the birds, the parakeets dive at me as I touch my fingers to the keys. Down the hall further, as I traversed the distance from my bed, my son, Ant, sleeping late as it is his day off. Then the bathroom with framed antique photos of the sea shore and Mexican gourd masks on the walls....on to the stairs that brought me down to the main floor and my best friend computer where I spend half of my waking life, generating the sustenance that maintains this all. Can it be so? Ant is awake now, laying himself languorously upon the couch, the movie "Dejavu" playing, replacing my ocean charisma. What magic is this all? How can I be so blessed?