Flip Book

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday.  Winter, spring, summer, fall, winter, spring, summer, fall.  January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December, January.  Midnight, noon, second shift, third.  Day. Night. Quarter of Ten.

I look up at the ceiling into the darkness as I lay on my back in bed, and think that it could be 2002, 1998, 1987, 1979, 1963, 1951.  It's the same darkness that hangs at the edge of the universe of ceiling, as if you were looking into infinity, could reach an arm into it and touch the hem of heaven or hell.  This one is occasionally semi-illuminated by reflective flashes of the traffic that runs by on the highway, tires hitting pavement till 3 or 4 in the morning.  The only time it is truly quiet is when there is a snowstorm, which muffles sound except for the metal monsters that scrape the roads clear of snow and ice, spilling it over the side of the raised highway and down onto the parking lot.

What strikes me is the sameness, the sameness of waiting for the weekend, or this Monday, or the month when strawberries come.  People, including me, are talking about the snow now hitting the midwest, soon to be in my city; it comes every year, the earth shifts a bit and gently slides us into somnambulant hibernation.  We are a bit sleepier, hot tea-ier, book read-ier, close the door-ier than in high summer.  Still, there are gnomons to watch for, holidays, meetings, events, or wishes unmet that swing us trapeze-style, from Sunday to Wednesay, to TGIF, and Saturday, made for markets.  

It's like a flip book, these pages of days and divisions created by humans as a way of order, yet I wonder, how many Saturdays have I lived through?  Could I stand another Sunday?  The weekends were horrifying when I was a child, I spent most of the time holding my breath until the inevitable Monday morning when my father would go back to work but return at half-past five.  I never slept in the dark then; it was only after I was married that a night light wasn't necessary for me to sleep.

I have planted gardens, raised a child, given to the homeless, painted walls, learned languages, been in a forest fire, memorized poems, made friends, created various pieces of art, rescued cats, lived through loss, believed in God, had measles, rescued a bat, learned how to flip an omelet, driven a stick shift, sawed wood, started campfires, totaled cars twice, ridden horses, earned a master's degree, flown through a thunderstorm, changed the oil, been foreman on a jury, dug for fossils, saw my son get married wonderfully, been shaken by a ghost, made pies, gotten tattooed, given away money, studied wild mushrooms, stepped on a stingray, picked up snakes, and have beginner ukulele skills.  This is only the stuff I can tell you. Yet, how does that darkness look the same?  How does the sameness overwhelm the differences?

Maybe it's meant to be blank, a soothing deep allowing reflection, wishes, dreams, a mumbled prayer.  Most people live regular lives just getting through one day to the next, wondering what's for supper, very few reach the realm of fame, we just hear more about them through media.  That doesn't mean you aren't unique, much to the contrary.  You know you're smarter than most, maybe brilliant with numbers, music, textiles, art, film, baking, nurturing, computers, teaching others, saving lives; it's what humans do.  Keep doing.

I had to learn to let the night envelope me, and now view it as relief, a time for dreams and healing of the day.  The tea is in the cup, with orange blossom honey; I look at the city lights and imagine the people who are out on the illuminated streets, visiting cafes, bars, coffee houses, extending their lives into the evening hours, when smell becomes more intense in the clearer air, hearing is amplified.  Instincts are sharper.  There will be a time when their heads gratefully hit a pillow, their blankets a glad enchantment.  


Should I sing you to dreams?  Here is your story, yours alone.  Good night, dear, brave heart.