Hanging on for dear life

I'd say that I was hanging on for dear life,

Even though it appears that she is lightly swaying from left to right,

Gently gliding along the rail,

Yes, it's me, hanging on for dear life, fighting fatigue from my roles

As cook, playmate, human jungle gym and arbiter between

Two small, but determined siblings who want the same

Thing NOW, and seem to know how to throw a punch. 

I'm hanging on for dear life

And it's only day two,

Only two badly slept nights, but time also 

Counted by number of crochet stitches to make a necklace, bracelet and ring

For this beautiful girl,

Time only spent once at these ages where nothing matters but

A blue sky, a sunny day, a full belly, lots of love and plenty of toys.

In two nights, I will sleep like a log, and will wake up missing

These two little monsters, um, angels because

She will never hang from that bar again

In exactly the same way, never

Glide from left to right

Wearing that same smile. 

 

The Journaling Class at the Age West Senior Center

 Some entered the room with walkers, others still with a bounce in their step,

We assembled around three large laminate tables, the ones with the folding legs,

We are of the age where we carry a spiral bound notebook to make notes along the way,

This is how memories are stored. 

George always begins the session, casting a spell of writing magic upon us all as

He circles the table.  

Carol sings a little song and plays guitar and everyone shares a bit of their latest

Adventures, those that are not too gay, of deaths, divorce, but yet a sunny day and a visit from a 

Grandchild.  

We are of the age of truths, not deception.  There is no Instagram in that room, 

Only Ann talks much longer than the unspoken limit on sharing news.

We wait with an outward patience that comes to us of a certain age.  

After a short discussion to generate promising prompts,

Jackie sets the timer to 20 minutes and the writing begins!  

We may write to exorcise the thoughts which keep us up at night, 

Or write to an interesting prompt, or maybe to memorialize the deepest 

Grief or a profound happiness, maybe the way the sunlight filters through 

The tree canopy or what happened before, what is yet to happen, our fears

And hopes, maybe we just start writing and upon rereading, we learn more

About ourselves.

And when the timer rings, we go around the room and Ann and George, 

Jackie and Carol, and all the others, maybe read what they have written.

George closes the circle, by walking his lanky frame around the table,

Casting a spell to carry us back into the outside world. 

Ann raises up to leave with her walker, I walk out to my bicycle

And the world spins, each adventure a new word waiting to be written. 

Thinking of biking in Tokyo

Somehow

The idea of rolling along Tokyo streets

By bike relaxes the stress of travel planning, the endless viewing

Of videos advising on ALL THE ZILLIONS OF COOL THINGS TO DO    

In Tokyo and I want to see them all and my stomach tightens

And my brain is crunching through all the possibilities.

Everyone is going to Japan and the roar of the trains and

The crush of the crowds edging their way to 

See this or that at close range seems daunting

But a bike!  The videos of people

Biking along quiet side roads, or 

A path along a busy highway,

Along the riverbank, the wind

Cooling my cheek, my own 

Little universe.

 

Playing music to our future selves

We are so young in this room, regardless of my salt and pepper hair,

They are all grey, balding, bent over, but .....there, in their chairs,

Waiting for to listen to our music.  

They were all there, alert and attentive, our future selves

In a few years, when it's not so easy to bike home

From an evening out with friends.

(Like I did tonight after watching The Rebel with A Clause)

I'm not ready yet to be their age, but I expose myself a bit at a time

Because one day I may be in that chair listening to some younger

People come play music for me, when I can no longer ride my 

Bike out for an evening with friends.

I'm not ready yet.

 

Open: A sign at the restaurant at the beach in Tulum

The top left part of the symbol on the left is a

Gate, the gate that opens your heart if you let it,

If the waves on the open sea stretching towards an infinite horizon

Cannot do it, perhaps the silky sand under your feet, 

Or the beauty of the carefully prepared fish on your plate,

The heavens loaded in stars and galaxies just waiting for your gaze 

To turn towards them, even unnamed, they are beautiful

And remember that we are all made of star dust.  

The small Japanese book sits at home, on the pink dinette

Where I have watched so many small birds pecking at the feeder,

The book that taught me the symbol for gate, the three alphabets

Necessary to understand Japanese, the words that I will never 

Learn, but will always revel in their magic.

 

Will I ever play like this

I was telling my teacher about the cereal aisle at Safeway 

But that one does have a beginning and an end, and what if it were infinite

And I have to choose a box of cereal, the colors and flavors, the promises of knowledge

And experiences shimmer in front of my eyes, I am paralyzed

By possibility, and so is this my way in life, in music, in French, in

Every step I take forward, or back, yet a paralysis of the boredom from 

The anguish of not/or/and choosing the right notes to go with that backing track.

I could not read his gaze but it scared me.

Oh, the cereal aisle - my daughter insists on GrapeNuts when she visits,

That will do or maybe, or maybe

Or maybe, oh, that one, 

As I dutifully wrote the three exercises for piano that I would dutifully execute

Every day, the Hanon finger exercises and then the CGC sequence in the left hand

At the same time and I won't allow myself that freedom/that curse to decide in each moment

What to do and my nervous system will thank me until I am stronger and 

Then I'll be able to walk some of the cereal aisle of life, feeling the strength of my legs,

The clarity of my eyesight and be secure in this dazzling life

Maybe for the first time.  

 

The landscape of the Mind

My landscape tends to cloudy and morose, facing into the wind

Cheeks chilled by sea spray, the world is mostly grey with skittering clouds.

I stared at this landscape at the museum, immersed in its stark beauty, noting how 

Many shades of grey, of brown, I walked into the frame and stood there next to 

The two women, all three of us still as statues, painted figures in a landscape 

That could easily draw frozen tears or grimaces that we can't see from outside.

Yet, perhaps we are all smiling at the movement of the clouds and the sea, I could 

Not see my own face, curiously, as I walked out of the frame

I turned to my companion and asked her about her mind landscape.

We live in different worlds and I'll have to ask her if she entered a painting 

That afternoon and what she discovered while there.  

There is an opening in that sky.