Friday, June 09, 2006

Summer Nights: Leaves and Cork Boards

I’m sitting on my kitchen floor in the dark at midnight with my back door open feeling the cool breeze of a summer night softly linger across my skin. This is a night of dreams. The night air smells of rain. I asked Jesus yesterday for ten days of rain this month of June. When I randomly mentioned it to my neighbor today, she made a half-smile and said to let her know if it happens. I will. And I’m counting. Today was day one. Miracles are missed by those who never ask for them.

I don’t want to live by the expected. Why can’t the unexpected be expected? Why can’t I eat popsicles in the morning and cheerios at night? Why can’t I let my hair grow all the way past my lovely dairy air? Why can’t I sit on dirty floors or collect leaves to write poems on only to send them floating away in the wind? Why can’t I take pictures of people and clouds and stones and pin them to public cork boards? Why can’t I write letters to old and new friends and send them with a real postage stamp? Why can’t I keep my windows rolled down in my old truck all summer long, with my music turned up real loud and my head bobbing this way and that? Why can’t I wear a skirt while I’m throwing clay on my wheel? When I ask for rain, why can’t I expect for rain to come?

I want to dream as if this was the first time I’ve ever thought of a real dream. As if I’ve never been broken. Broken people who stay broken always live in pieces. They have two and three and more worlds they straddle between. They use words like, back then, or someday, or maybe, or we’ll see, or I don’t know…
I want to live in one world. I want to live now.

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