Often, in my zoom-zoom during housework, I fail to take a minute to smell the roses. Why I slowed my roll while on my hands and knees, steam cleaner pressed over a spot the dry vacuum failed to suck up—I don’t know. As an aside, since the little girl kitten and her mama moved in, the number of potted plants resting on their sides has risen. Like Jesus on Easter.
Anyway, in my usual hurrying, I’d spray, scrub, and quick-vacuum.
Not today.
Today, I held it there. Time slowed. My hand stayed steady, holding the pull of air in place like a dentist. Then it changed—looking as if a Ghostbuster were being pulled into a containment chamber. Not just one of those slimy bastards. Ten of them. Each a mini waterslide, sucked into the vacuuming void within.
No drugs were required to induce this state, surprisingly. Just a chance to slow. To step aside—one large step to the left—and allow the wolf its prey. That’s how I bare my soul to the masses: through the bridge we connect—a city, a game, into another’s heart.
I once wrote for me. Even when shame met me cross-legged and alone, an empty fast-food bag nearby, ketchup and mayonnaise greasing my jean leg. Reading and conjuring images hit a nerve; it sent me into despair.
I felt addicted to comfort. Addicted to approval. For it, I sacrificed.
And when I rush, it gets away from me—the child’s balloon released, drifting and swaying, ribbon tail bobbing in the wind. A big red balloon. But the price of never letting it go is keeping it tied around my wrist.
One of my least favorite experiences in life is being observed. And yet, I write. And I write. And I don’t stop.
I observe. I observe you, and me, and the way the mushroom statues on my walls seem to move—their umbrella tops wooden, as if just picked from a rainforest’s mossy floor. I observe the part of me that wants to run, that’s scared of being seen.
Because if I stopped—really stopped—
the next thought and the one before it…
If I silenced all voices but my own,
and listened with my heart—
Would it sing?
Would it sway?
And play.
And play.
And play.
Going On 40 