Thunder Moon

I’ve had a hell of a day.  I took a break this afternoon from cleaning my house to stare at Facebook for a while, and suddenly windows were opening, warnings were sounding, my hard drive was in danger… danger…. danger….It was fucking critical.

I know better, don’t I? I didn’t click. But the damn things kept coming and restarting didn’t help and they looked like they were coming from Windows and my files were failing all over the place. I clicked and got the message: this can be fixed if you send us money. Damn it. Hollered to a geek friend in Utah and she told me how to download some powerful malware software that should fix it. So far the fix hasn’t gotten back my files. I’m sure they’re there somewhere, but not where I can see them. I’ll have to keep working on that or call in local reinforcements, like the loyal friend who offered to fix it tonight within minutes of my putting out a cry for help. I am blessed with friends even when my luck sucks big green donkey balls.

No need to stay home and fret though. The geeks will help me figure it out eventually. I met The Diplomat, still in his suit and tie, downtown for happy hour in a place where I saw the ghost of myself and someone else sharing a pizza over an apology, or a salad before a poignant commercial transaction…. I tried not to look at them, watch them struggling and failing to communicate again….. on the stage now an old friend was playing her blues—she on the piano, singing, and her husband wailing on his sax. She said she would make me cry, and she did. She sure did.  She took me right off that edge. She took me there while the lawyers and office workers laughed too loud and shouted at long tables. I’m not far from it these days anyway, but the blues take me down quick and easy.

Before I left home though, another friend, a bluesman himself, sent me a long email about my writing, about where our lives are taking us now, and about new lives to come, and in it he said he wants me to “see [my] own beautiful self through [my] own eyes…” He’s feeling fragile too, tired from wandering the desert, and yet he took the time to send me words that were meant to bring healing tears…. Seeing myself through my own eyes would be better….or at least the eyes of those who cherish me.

Happy hour over, I headed out to a reunion….a group of women who gathered to howl at the full moon and plan music for a memorial service for one of our own, a crone and mentor to all of us. We shared memories in ritual, sang our old songs, and walked to a bridge overlooking a wide city street to howl at the butter-colored moon. The thunder moon or the buck moon it's called in July. I walked with an old friend who has been ill. She said she hasn’t walked in a very long time, and she doesn't feel safe to travel now. She said she was happy she could keep up with me tonight. I hope I can someday come close to her grace and emotional generosity. I’m the one who will never catch up to her, I’m afraid. Some of my sisters are generations apart from me…

Before we parted, we gathered in a circle, our arms tight around each other, and we sang to each woman in turn this song, using her name in place of “sister”:

Sister, you are beautiful.

Sister, you are strong.

Wonderful to be with,

Carry us along.

Sister, hear our loving song.

It’s much easier to sing this song to another woman, look into her eyes, nod for emphasis…yes, you are strong… hold her close against your side…yes, you are beautiful…how I wish you could see yourself through my eyes...smile at her....how I wish your eyes showed you what my eyes show me about you....it’s much easier to give this song than to receive it. Tonight….again I cried and my sisters stood with me. They shed their own tears. As we left, a dear friend gave me an early birthday card, a collage she'd made of the life she wishes for me. And so I cried for that gift as well.

On the way home, I felt strong and affirmed and so very blessed. I saw myself through different eyes. I had skipped dinner, so I was starving. My heart….well, it’s a tender thing that needs to lose some weight anyway. …but my soul had been fed a steak dinner with warm bread and butter and sweet potato fries.

And then my Muse, because she can’t resist the taste of moon tears, she took out her riding crop and started dictating a poem. I was slowing down so I’d hit red lights….so I could take down notes on the back of a sheet of lyrics, because when the sadistic bitch Dolores puts on her spurs, she’s going to ride no matter what I want. I’ll post the poem when it’s had time to cure…ouch, stop that….maybe tomorrow….you’re hurting me….maybe Sunday…..give me that fucking riding crop, you nasty mythological creature you. She can’t always get her way. It’s late and I have so many things to do tomorrow, starting with a morning bike ride.

I’m still working on those other posts….promises to keep and miles to go. But the Muse will give me what she gives me, and tonight all she’s going to give me is this one poem: My Crazy Poem. Wait for it.