I feel the need to organize my purse.
My life.
To where I am able to switch handbags easily.
moods. Flavors.
I want to make sure I always pack kindness with my sunglasses.
Love with my hand sanitizer.
Peace with my wallet.
Otherwise I just end up with a mess of
Motrin and coins in the corner of the bottom
With a plug and receipts
And a pen with no cap.
Bleeding blue on everything.
I lose so many things already
That I buy and overbuy and rebuy the things
Only to find a drawer full of shampoo and deodorant.
I bought a box of soaps from an Amish woman, and she
Had to worry why I would buy so many
But the flavors of each one were so wonderful.
And now we need soap.
And paper towels.
And surgical gloves I use when I make biscuits by hand.
So perhaps it’s that I lose the memory of buying it.
Or of the inventory I have on hand.
But then I can just go shopping in my own closet.
Kindness to myself. Gifting and regifting what I already bought.
The simple breath that keeps me alive.
collecting.
Like my grandmother. My mom has her mother’s purse, and it hangs on the chair
still holding on to her lessons of managing lipstick and jewelry
As well as kindness and god.
I think of the choir lessons we would share when I would go with her to church.
That one time when she left her dentures at home and had to go back for them.
How she made it out of the house without teeth, I’ll never understand.
Her purse was never a mystery for us.
Her kindness was never a mystery either.
She gave all that she could, but you’d likely get a lecture about God if you were a homeless man in Atlanta who just wanted some money for booze.
She found ways to show up in my thoughts and my days.
And I still have the voicemail from her from years ago singing Happy Birthday.
I haven’t been able to listen to it, but I have it for when I will need it.
For when the sorrow stands so solidly that I need to speak to sorrow
So she can speak back to me.
What does she look like, this sorrow?
A sheer curtain of a dress with
A sad mouth and concerned angles of eyelashes.
She is delicate. And translucent.
Almost invisible in some sunny moments.
She takes kind and timid steps and speaks in a language
I often don’t understand. Can’t fathom. Often ignore.
As we all may be straining right now to hear and understand
This mythic creature of sorrow, let’s all strain to hear each other.
Let’s find each other in kindness. Let’s stretch our voices and our
Hearts to translate whatever flowing thoughts we are daring to put on paper.
We can bounce in the sun and hug ourselves against the chill of this waning winter.
Crumbling concrete will carry our footsteps to each other once
We find a way to get back to the steady rhythm of healing.
With the warm sky on our shoulders.
Bright and fancy.
Like the sorrow of exchange.
That we carry in our pockets and purses
With the obvious experiences of our daily lives.
And the memories that I carry with me like shadows of friends.
Those stories are continually looking for me.
They want to tell their moments and lessons to the world.
To those who suffer. alone. Or at the hands of someone else.
So kindness and sorrow walk hand in hand.
They reach out to tell me more lessons that I can’t fully translate.
yet.
But the day is coming when I will know their language and can
Dance with them in a future of compassionate souls.
Before you know how the winds will carry you through tomorrow
Before you know where the grains of sand will come together
Before you know who the people of your afterlife will be
You must open up your heart and soul and find the
Explosions of truth as they burst with sugary flavor
Like shocking clouds of sympathy.
Incidental quotes of courage and power that only you can cultivate.
Before you can’t know any longer the solidity of this earth.
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