washwords

I’m honeymooning.

Not literally. Yes, we’re planning our fabulous England/Scotland honeymoon (Bath – York – Edinburgh – highlands – glasgow-london. heee!) but that’s not what I mean.

Life is sweet –even when I’m tired and work is… work and it’s too hot and/or too cold (jon stewart’s line: hits by grandma, featuring “Its suffocatingly hot” and the B side, “now I’m too cold”) and the grass isn’t mowed and we have to do laundry and grocery shop and the car has a rumble… there’s a peace and a beauty I’ve not felt in so long… maybe ever.

It’s making you a sandwich though you say you’re fine, because I know it’s what you need; it’s you telling me “I got it” and that I know you do. It’s watching you write out cards and scroll through books and spreadsheets and maps, for us; and merging those cards with my own. It’s yard-saling, the perfect rhythm of my energy for selling and yours for packing and clearing. It’s walking with weights and strolling with woofs, our steps and words echoing as we move.

It’s holding my niece, crayons in one fist, new shirt I bought her dragged along in the other, playing in the grass and breezes, hearing her hearty laugh.

It’s friends, who sail in and out, but are there, always.

It’s working out physically in the gym and emotionally at meditation and feeling change if not seeing it quite yet.

So there’s still the orange line, the pointy bags, the close talkers. And there’s still work and trying to prove myself and help others thrive and learn. And there’s undone blogs, and “nights” I fall asleep at 4 p.m., and the missed opportunity of a deal unsnagged, but still…
there is still and peace and calm and… love.

I’m all knotted up
Disastrous case of twine flu
The cure: a good yarn

My pal’s back is hurt
Perhaps she has the spine flu
The cure: lay supine

Niece “bucket” age two
no shocker has caught “mine flu”
other tykes: adieu!

Complainin’ and mopey
I have the whine flu fer shure
Cure? methinks WINE flues!

I could go all day but lemme hear yours! leave a comment below

Debate? No debate?
Candidates love and love not
Lets get it started.

Metro whistlers, SHHHH!
Sometimes I wake up grumpy,
sometimes let him sleep

“solved.” without mccain.
it’s raining in washington
since obama left

snowdrifts of paper
email, voice-mail, lists to do
how to shovel out

and yet, even here,
even now, with so much flux
there is peace. in love.

for more Washwords’ (and friends) haikus see Haiku You

I get the Express every day, folded in gloved hand, the Ballston guy hands in syncopated rhythm, “hello, beautiful;thank you darlin, here you go hon,” fwip, fwip, fwip, the papers fly hand to hand to hand. “thank you sir,” I say. every day. in harmony with the clipping shoes, spreading umbrellas, buttoning coats.

[“Stormy Personalities” by Fu Man Jew on flickr]

I take out my metrocard in one hand, folded paper in the other, pull out pen, and begin.

I might flip through the paper – if there’s a picture of the president or news that’s not alarming or mundane, but quickly i get to it: the crossword.

I like the feel of blue marker ink spreading over newsprint, letters into squares, into clues, into words until the grid is complete. I try to do them by the time I reach the office, and definitely by the time I reach home.

Then I send it to recycle bin and wait for morning to begin. again.

words, ritual, crosswords, express, ink, morning

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