Contemplative Jenn

sounds so good to Me…

”...I wanna touch the earth
I wanna break it in my hands
I wanna grow something wild and unruly

I wanna sleep on the hard ground
In the comfort of your arms
On a pillow of blue bonnets
And a blanket made of stars

Oh it sounds good to me

I said cowboy take me away
Fly this Girl as high as you can
Into the wild blue
Set me free oh I pray
Closer to Heaven above
And closer to you
Closer to you

I wanna walk and not run
I wanna skip and not fall
I wanna look at the horizon
And not see a building standing tall

I wanna be the only one
For miles and miles
Except for maybe you
And your simple smile

Oh it sounds good to me
Yes it sounds so good to me.”

A quiet drink to visit with my baby sister on the eve of her leaving has turned into a burgeoning family boozefest at the local alehouse. This just shy of two days after a hurtful, beer-bolstered family knock-down-drag-out, taking emotional hostages, that inspired my brother to throw an enebriated tantrum and eject us from his house. Now I know myself. I don’t play nice when I’ve been hurt. I don’t do well putting on my happy face, even with those who know me so little. I am honest, open, empathic, the triumverate that leaves me spread wide for the slings and arrows of others’ issues and pain, and also makes me the bearer of that-which-needs-be-said. There is a lot of pain in my family, especially right now, and I have more than my fill already, thank you very much. I want desperately to say no to this gathering, run screaming, in fact, in no small part because I am unsure I can keep it together, on one side or the other, in this volatile milieu. But it is my baby sister’s last night here, and enough innocent victims have been marred by the emergent family dynamic. She needn’t be another, or at least not hurt more than she already has been. I know this makes me sound like some odd martyr, but she’s always been my responsibility, her well-being and protection my raison d’etre, since the day she was born. I guess old habits die hard. I’m going. I won’t drink, or maybe one social cocktail, and stay just long enough to feel out the dynamic, hug and smile and say goodbye. I know this isn’t the healthy option. I know the arguments against. But deaths and premature endings have taught me nothing so well as that there might not be another moment to say what needs saying, especially if what needs saying is ‘I love you.’ So now to calm down, swallow the tears that hang at the edge of my throat, gird in jeans and boots and lipstick, and get myself going. Sigh. Wish me luck.

I feel great today, and my look mirrors my mood. I am breezy, casual. Short khaki skirt, batik peasant blouse in corals and pinks. Strappy sandals, toes swathed in iridescent shell blush. Hair upswept, silver jewelry shimmers against bronzed skin, freckles. Moroccan spice lipgloss. The sun on my face, my breasts, a warm breeze blowing the tendrils of my hair. Quiet moments, playful, stolen from the universe, then blessed by it. A reminder that this season, too, is beloved, a gift.