my coffee is better when it’s in a smaller cup…

and other things i’ve noticed.

*it’s about the preciousness of it, the necessity of loving it while I have it, for it will soon be gone.

I’m going to stash a bunch of things I’ve written here, and see if the utterly disconnected can be connected, because webs webs webs you know.

1. The golden woman child that I keep at my core, that dancing molten thing that runs my system, is she percolating, stretching out, trying to send gold out my fingertips, and I’m being sensible and wearing the correct waterproof gear?
2. where is the wildness in me? Do I want to locate it, really? Will I go along for the ride in joy or will I hold on tight with my just-so gloves and complain about my lack of planning?
   A woman in her carriage, being bounced around, or the driver on top, recklessly bearing down the path… Please let me be the driver. I want to be the driver, gloves on, but driving wildly, on. On.
3. Life is glorious. Maybe I should actually focus more on my distractions, that is where the joy lives.
4. And there was so much hope, hope that we would sleep in, that things would be cancelled, although I knew it was not going to come to pass. I tried to let them down softly. At this point, there is only one who still wants to run outside in the dark, trampling snow and bringing in snowballs. I felt myself saying no to an invitation, knowing that next year she may not invite me out, might not even go out, and could feel the snow fall from the branches softly on this part of my life.
5. I’m my own flit and scurry today, my brain and its wanderings having meshed. The definition of flighty, I suppose. Far from flaky, though, my layers are thick and spangled throughout with scarlet and deepest midnight blue, with the occasional birch bark interlude.
6. Oh good lord. Don’t I hang on? Drag my dolls through the dirt like so much appalacian storytelling?  I can’t even say anything here. Pulling along behind me all my old stories, the exes now that I am a grown woman, the hurts and slings and arrows, all piled up on that dirty little rag doll.
   I wonder if she’s some inner landscape I have been avoiding? The ways in which she changes and ages, the things that finally fall off of her. If anything does. She appears more worn down than amputated.
   Frazzled, ragged, worn. The words I’m using for my oldest cares. The ones I don’t investigate because they might feel fresh if I should pick them up and dust them off. And I’m not of an age to play with dolls anymore.
   I wonder how she’s tied to me. If there’s a cord cutting that is possible for imaginary doll friends who carry all the old cares, the old hurts and sorrows. And if there is, would she become something I mourn, once I cut her loose?

And there you have it. Some of it. Bits and bites and I’m just curating at this point, making my little cups of strong coffee, cherished.

-kate