Burgeon with life.

This past week and weekend have kind of knocked me flat in all ways, and any bit of inquisitiveness I have has been expelled in a gray vapor, and my brain is flat and buzzing, like wires that don't connect in the right ways. I am at present moment unable to cast a joyful sheen on anything, am unable to seek the big picture, or to count the ways in which I have lovely in my life. My eyes are straining and itchy and I just don't see it. I know my vision will clear. I'm actively wiping at the goggles as we speak. But for now, a tiny lovely from two weekends ago, when everything seemed a lot nicer. It's fungus growing from a decaying log, proof that even when things are ugly, there is always lovely: that something, as it dies, can burgeon with life, sustain other lives.

Except when I'm awake.

I can sing a little,
my throat clasps a golden beetle
that tickles and chokes
and is soft in the wing

I can dance a little,
my hips make proclamations
that sound sometimes
like grand gestures,
and sometimes whispers.

My teeth chatter when I speak
and the half truth is
my eyes are full of sand
and I can see everything.

The full truth is
I spend every day sleeping,
and my head is full of dreams
that quake upon waking.

Felled.

Gray to the south and the sky is parting, the inverse of flood,
cloudrafts bridge the distance. They are headed north.

Her children are laughing and gathering millipedes and
grubbing fistfuls of pretzels. The wagon rattles on the sidewalk.

She offers joy to the sky. Her arm extends from her body, a tender shoot,
and she grabs the first raft she sees.

Thank you, she thinks, and feeds the silent blessing to a thorny tree.
A stinkbug stranded on its back, apple-green legs waving.
The jacket wind.

Until a prickling sensation behind her ear says, If only.
She marks the space around her with a thumbtack.

And goes unraveling toward the gray.

:::

We hit the road just after 10 in the morning and the gray day spanned the miles, a large hollow pocket where everyone is alive but sleeping. To the north, we could see blue and the only chill came from a light wind that bit pink into our cheeks but left us wanting.

We would chase the blue.

Impossibly excited, the girls rattled along in the wagon and we listened to She & Him and Madeleine hummed along to "Thieves."

It was around mile three that it all hit me. We were passing the thorny trees and a family of roller bladers skated at varying skill levels around us. The sky was more blue than gray here; the wind was perfect and we were outside and we were moving. I thought, this is how every day should be, and for one brief moment I felt totally connected to everything. Everything was perfect.

And then: I wish I could do this every day. This is what every day should be.

And just like that, I lost the moment. It was tainted by the wishes and wants and shoulds.

This very breath I am taking right this second -- it's the wish, the want, the should. End of story.

Today, I am breathing. And that's enough.

:::