I sit. It’s hard for me to just sit, to be of silence in body. The mind seems a magnet, each sound paper clips itself to place hold a thought, an image, an idea.
A paddle fan moves silently. It’s shadow reminds me of days when the weather vane emitted a squeak no oil can could heal.
Healing. I’m at a place of healing waiting for these winds to cease blowing so that not even one hair is moving. Iowa is never calm. Our winds have no metal edge to linger on. Even our cities are windy. There is too much energy building off acres of restless soil rich not from crop, but the sweat that has dropped upon its flat expanse.
A lone bird, no, now there are two, sound an evening song though it is only four. My work has not started. I am not done. I sit.
Four floors above me inside these glass metal doors he sleeps. Four miles to the west of me inside my ivory painted front door she may sleep. He fights for freedom from pain that sucked every ounce of unspent energy. Morphine now his slave. She must stay still so her back or hips heal. It’s man’s best friend. Her best man has no idea as he dreams in a pancreatic fog.
I, the off daughter, the one relatives murmur of how not to be, shows her love, kinda. He sleeps, so I escape to the breeze in this suburban dream of emergency brick and motor. A taj mahal that at his age I shall never know for I will have no one, I will own nothing, I will be a government subsidy.
Seriously, winds need to carry me upstairs to check and see. No one sees me here, near my bike, outside reading a book of zen-like breathing. A Mindful Writer has me thinking… Yes, why do I write?
Employees leave in blue scrubs. Employees enter in pink. I should move. Not every inch of skin is covered. A trance moves me nowhere.
Epiphany. Last nights weary sleep peeks. Who were those people. Why did I dance alone in the street? Why a case of wine from a trap door? When did dreams become such cinematic mysteries. A metaphor of things.
I don’t like the cinema. You must sit. I must move.
Truth. I am selfish to the nth of the smallest bone. There is nothing mindful to be out here. If I had just sat in there, I’d at least offer him the healing power of love.