This is a story of yesterday.
And actually the day before yesterday too.
I drive to another zipcode to grocery shop. I know thats shocking for a one-zip-code dweller. And I stroll down the isle of the frozen things. The day before yesterday part of the story goes like this. My family had a very odd on-the-way-to-church conversation on Sunday. It was all about crazy coupon shopping. There is a name or a title or a badge of honor that goes with that skill. The Patient-One wants me to do this. This is not the current me. Might be the me he wants me to be. Going to another zipcode to shop in a much less expensive grocery store was part of me trying to be more cost aware.
The isles are quiet. Very quiet and calm. There was almost an echo. Monday must not be the day for all the mad coupon mommas. I digress. That story stays in the former paragraph.
And I hear a beautiful story. I hear a painting and I hear a poem. I hear art. The eyes of my heart hear a sliver of a life story. They see the art in the life moment.
The words were tender. The transaction between two men was small but it was huge. Beauty in the moment. Threads of life weaving between two men. One young. One old. Both working on this day.
I slow down. I am captured by their sweet interaction. I am moved by the exchange. This life transaction tendered before my ears and eyes touches place in me.
Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering — Winnie The Pooh
Take a life slice, stab it with your fork, place it on the taste buds at the tippy of your tongue. And savor. Move it around from the sweet to the savory, those buds that register different flavors. Suck long and suck hard. Make them last for a long forever.
Pick up the paint brush of your inner knowing and paint a picture of the life you see. Record it in a place for keeps. So you can know you lived. Know you live. Remember the all. The glorious and the unglorious. All the parts and pieces of the mosaic that is yours. Your one. Your only. Your life.
One isle over I see my special friends mother. I am not a good friend. I don’t mentor well. I have not returned her child’s call. I say I missed Quailla’s call. She smiles and tells me all good things. I think. I believe it to be good. The fact that there are changes. I send my love. And I bury my guilt in the knowing that they seem well. I hear of spring break and a trip and new things. And we smile. This time between two mothers. And we talk about one child. I celebrate spontaneously in this isle. I don’t know its name. But its a good place to celebrate change.
Go grab a pen. Be your historian of your one life. Scribble it down and put it in a place for safekeeping. Jot it down all messy and real, its yours. Give it a grand heros welcome. Roll out the red carpet for it, for them. Memory will take good care of all that is preserved. Guard it all. Guard it well.
And the bees were next. Lots and lots of bees.
Look and see all the bees.
I took pictures of bees and more.
They are there for you to see. ( Dr. Seuss may be creeping in. Oh my. First Pooh then Dr. Seuss. smiling here)
And there were words. Some were good and sweet and tender. And some were not. Some gave encouragement and were life affirming. But I take the all and I mix it, blend it, taste it, and name it mine. There were moments that taught and words that cut. There was a blur of beauty and a swirl of pain. There were pronouncements of new birth coming from across the way in the house looking out in Hope and new life.
The end.
Not really. Its not the end of the story. Its Tuesday. And Tuesday has a story of her own to tell.
elizabeth w. marshall 