For a moment

...you are ten, and you believe in peace.  You believe that you can and will change the world.  You know that, when you do what you've been selected to do, you will be making a difference.  You suspect nothing.  You trust everything.  The number infinity is the most fascinating idea you have ever heard.  Until, of course, someone tells you that there is an infinite number between each number.  The universe not only expands out, it expands in.  For a moment you are ten, and you stand in front of people and tell them that this is the safest place in the world.  Because this is your whole world, and everyone in it is glad to be there.

L'Shanah Tovah

Every couple weeks, Mary comes to my front door.
We've had talks about God, God's will, the kingdom coming.
I've helped load a tv stand into her trunk, dutifully offered
my open hand to the colleagues she brings along with her. 
One May day, I served her granddaughter a pomegranate popsicle.
Today she came knocking.  It's Rosh Hashanah.
She  figured I'd have the day off and, she was right, I did.
This time, though, when she started talking about
the latest passage she thought I might like, I said, "No,
no more Mary."  Then, as if some tourniquet had been loosened,
I started crying and talking, spilling out all over my front porch.
I said we believe in the same God, we admire a merciful man
named Jesus, we have read passages from a book
that gives us both some direction and solace.  I told Mary,
with her wide eyes, that she and I were doing the exact same thing:
trying to do life right.  It just looked very different for each of us. 
I wiped tears with my shirt sleeve, my nose was running.
Mary, with her soft eyes, said, "You seemed so bothered;
what is it really, Jean?" I said, "This is not sadness or anger
boiling out of my body, this is resolve you are seeing."
I thought, this is my shofar finally blowing its strong sound.
I wished my friend a happy new year. She said she loved me
and I said the same back, then I walked her down the staircase, across
the wide street to her white mini-van, and hugged Mary good-bye. 

Tonight I cannot think of anything to write.  It was a good day -- the same old, same old only a bit better.  Great class (made up of 11 boys!)  A mediation practice that went really well (after some hard talk two days ago about not being prepared).  Two solidly productive meetings with my colleagues.  Retreat planning at church.  An unexpected phone call.  It was a fine day, no bumps or hiccups, but I am pretty sure that nothing about this day will stand out. Seven year from now, I will have no idea what happened on September 28th, 2011.

Not having anything to write, I just closed my eyes and scrolled around in my iPhoto collection then clicked.  This is the image I saw when my eyes were opened. Cliff Palace at Mesa Verde.  This is where Pueblo people lived about a thousand years ago.  I have dozens and dozens of pictures like it.  In some ways this one seems about right for tonight.  Houses. Kivas.  A large city with no one in sight. 

That's kind of the dichotomy of my life. I spend my days with 380 other people.  Then I go home to an empty house.  It's beautiful, like this is.  It's filled with nooks and crannies, like this is too.  Cliff Palace and Dellwood Road.  Quiet.  Not lifeless, not in ruins, but empty.  It my home past its prime?  Does it indicate a future of solitude?  A sign of abandonment?  A place people like to visit -- tour about in fascination -- but do not want to stay put?  A place left behind when something better came into being?  I am not sure.

I stood above Cliff Palace for an hour this summer.  I stared down into the village.  Counted the kivas.  Imagined where I might have lived if I had been hardy enough to live in this era (I am not).  I was in awe of it.  And maybe tonight, I should just do the same thing with my life, and my quiet nights.  Step back.  Take the long view.  Stare down into what's there with wonder and curiosity.  Look at it through the lens of beauty.  Mesa Verde -- the table green.  Dellwood -- a small wooded valley.  Cliff Palace -- a home to many.  My place -- a home to me.

Ava wrote

In poetry class, Ava wrote that sometimes she gets butterflies in her stomach. All I can say is that I have not felt that in a long, long time.  Not out of fear. Or worry.  (Which I think were her trigger emotions).  Or confusion.  Or alarm.  Or being in a challenging situation.  Or out of giddy attraction.  I am wondering where the butterflies have gone.  If they just wither away by my age?  Or if it is a sign of my faith and lack of fear?  Or, if, I just do not feel as much as I used to.  And I mean that, sadly, in a sad way.

Time stopped

 

Time stopped today. 11:47 am on the corner of Lee and Monticello.  Beth Zych up front.  The full choir behind her.  Two bars of a gospel riff on the piano and then the song, "Somebody's Praying.'" It was astonishing.  Beth's solo, the choir's increasingly loud choruses.  Here's the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6If0IpjDQlU

I wonder tonight who is praying for me.  If the inverse is converted, no one.  I am a sloppy prayer.  I do not pray unless there is a crisis or I am panicked.  Maybe when something incredibly unbelievable happens, I might remember to give thanks.

I remember when I broke my arm and I spent hours and hours in physical therapy.  In those many minutes, I would think of Jennie.  And Sheri.  The driver of the day.  The kids I was not healed enough to teach.  I would talk in my head to them.  I would think about how they were moving through their days.  It was then that I decided -- I hoped -- that that thinking was enough. That if I were to be ceaselessly praying, it would have to be in this form.  Just thinking, just running people through my head. 

So today, if you are willing to believe what I believe, then these are the people who walked through my thoughts today.  Can you call it it prayer please?  Tia, Anne, Clover, John, Jim, Maggie and Allie, Bill, George, Sheridan, Cullen, Tavish, Tia again, my brother, Mark, Kathy, Susan, Margaret, Rita Marie, Helen, Grace, Ron, Jeff, Ann, Tia again, Tia now, Christine, Lindy, my father, my mother, my grandmother, Anne, the Steelers, the choir, Eric, Deanne, the woman who slices my roasted turkey, Caroline, Jill...

Somebody's praying.  If I can think of all of these people, maybe just maybe, somebody's praying for me. 

Just when I least expect it

...my six year old self jumps into my body - no, the place deeper than my body -- and she needs things that can no longer be offered.  A question.  A light hand on the small of her back.  A tousling of the hair.  Someone saying, "How are you?  Come sit by me a while."

I think this child is extraordinarily beautiful.  Her eyes are still my eyes.  Her calm is my calm.  I am entranced by her.  I want to scoop her up and snuggle with her.  I want to tuck her into bed.  Read with her. Sing with her.  Ask her what she did today.  I want to show her a constellation.  A ring of stars called Jean.

I want to tell her that it all turns out better than she imagined.  I want to tell her it is all harder than she could guess.  I want to tell her that there are people she will love who won't quite know how to love her back.  I want to tell her that she is extraordinarily beautiful on that day, and the next day, and the one after that, until she truly believes it and can leave herself behind.

Knowing and not knowing

I drove down to the Cleveland Clinic to watch the sun set from the rooftop pavilion.  Normally, there are only a handful of people in this, one of the city's undiscovered best places.  So I was more than surprised to hear the jangle of many voices as I exited the elevator.  Thirty, maybe forty, people were sitting around the tables eating dinner together.  A buffet line was set up on the eastern edge of the room.  Black people, old people, young families.  A soup of humanity.  I noticed two women wearing white coats moving from table to table -- doctors?  Speakers?  And a man clearly selling his wares: memo pads with an insignia, a fanny pack packed with something, pens.  Everything the same rust red and creme white.

I sat on the far reaches of the room and read my book for a while, but it did not hold my interest as much as these people did.  They were all so happy.  The normal 33/33/33 ratio was all skewed.  You know: 33 percent disgruntled, 33 percent ambivalent, and 33 percent gruntled. 

(Is that even a word?)
(It is! Webster's: "The people were gruntled with a good meal and good conversation")

I left after about an hour, happy -- for some reason not known to me.  One of the white clad women was in the elevator with me.  She was heading to the 3rd floor, me back down to 1.  I asked, "Who were those people?  What was that event?"

"That was a transplant dinner.  They are all people who have had transplants."

"All different organs?"  I asked, my hands motioning awkwardly as I scanned my whole body - liver, lungs, corneas.

"No, heart. They all have heart transplants."

There was something about knowing that that filled me up instantly.  I had just spent an hour with people who had received new hearts.   I was in a room of modern miracle.  Veneration.  Wonder.  How many synonyms are there for awe?

I love those moments.  The split second between knowing and not knowing.  One crumb of new information flips the hour.  Topsy turvies the day.  Opens it all somehow.  Widens the vantage. 

Tonight I sat in a room of people who have had two hearts.  Right now, at home, I am simply trying to lock in this idea: I must never forget that that which looks ordinary may just be splendor wrapped up in plain clothes.  I never really know what I am in the midst of.  I never know when I am ten feet away from the beat, beat, beat of something far bigger than anything I would imagine.

The battle of letting go

Everything leaves remnants,
small bits and pieces behind.
Pretzel salt in the bottom of the bowl,
fingerprints on iPad screen, 
the smell of rain in your hair.
There is an event -
a person, place or thing -
and also that which lingers.

Today, the ink slid across
the melamime of the white board easily. 
Bold blue, black, and red
(when I really had to make a point.)
Then, as soon as the kids were gone,
I dry-erased it down to nothing,

I worry about this crop of students. 
Will they think that life is that way?
Present and then gone?
Completely wiped away
without the elipsis of living that loiters?

Even now, today, more than
twelve hundred days since she left,
a small part of my large heart is hinged to her.
I am having a hard time
picking up the eraser, getting rid of that love.
But maybe that is not the tool I need.
Maybe healing is not about releasing it all,
but picking up a new marker
-red, yes, red -- to start again.
Write the story I may not read
or understand until much later.

Reading

I've spent a large part of the last three days reading this book.  It's a whomping 475 pages and I am galloping through it at a high speed, yet keenly aware of every word.  There is no skimming with this one.

I want to know what happens to Henry, Schwartz, Pella, Owen.  I want to read another marvelous sentence.  I want to see how Chad Harbach pulls in all the threads for a satisfying ending. 

Last night I dreamed about playing catch.  Zipping the ball to someone else.  Hearing the hard smack of the ball against leather.  And I ran, too.  I love when I have my running dreams.

When I was younger, I threw hard, almost too hard for the first basemen awaiting the toss.  In our town, there were at least 15 softball teams.  No mamby pamby shit either.  We all could play.

When I am reading this book, I lose my place in the world.  I am not 49.  I am not 100 pounds over weight.  I am not achy and slow, tender in so many places.  I am young again.  Red dirt rings my ankles.  My hat fits snuggly on my head.  I am crouched over, staring at the batter, hoping -- always -- that the ball comes my way.  

This

...is what Tavish colored on their walkway yesterday afternoon, and, now, it is completely washed away as if it did not exist. Today, as I was driving home from work, I thought about Carrie. Writing Carrie.  Asking her to meet with me so that I could ask: Why didn't you ever voice your serious concerns if you had been feeling them for a year?  Why didn't you ever seek a counselor's name after I had given you the go ahead?  Why did you ask for a room, but then never do anything with it? Paint it?  Rearrange it?  Bring over your furniture?  Why did you not tell the truth when it happened, as you always said you would?  Why did you surprise me, when you vowed nothing would ever come as a surprise?  How many people knew you were leaving me before I did? 


I know those questions all seem like accusations, and they would have been had I asked them three years ago, or even two.  But now, they are just questions.  Genuine questions I have. 


Because I am not privy to her -- because I do not have access to her -- what do I do with these questions?  They do not wash away.  They do not seem to seep into the soil of my different soul.  They are as vibrant, though differently anchored, than they were all of those years ago.

Is that the way it is with this kind of thing?  And why does it have to be so?  I am not afraid anymore.  No question would ever hurt me.  No inquiry would shake my core.  Carrie could say anything to me and I would own what I need to own.  The truth has almost actually set me free.

Just after she left, when Carrie and I spoke one last time, she said that her leaving had helped me become me.  I want to tell her, no, it did not.  My reaction to her leaving -- my active purposeful healing--  helped me become me.  She was a plot piece, a secondary character in the epiphany. 

But still, even so, and yet, she is the only one who can answer the questions that sit -- so damn bright yellow and green  -- in me.  I wish that were not true, anymore.  I somehow feel weaker because of it.  Apologetic.  Embarrassed.  But it's the truth.  And a small certain corner of me remains tied to it.  Hitched to this post, yanking, yanking, for it all to disappear.

For Nikki

I was going to write this poem in third person. Describe what the back story was. The color of your car in my driveway, the sitting, the four hour talk. The topics, the laughter, the smell of coffee in my house long after you left. I was going to write to another audience, the random person who stumbles across this blog or the occasional visitor returning again. I was going to try to make it pretty and clever, try to connect it to the larger landscape of living, somehow wend the way to a lesson.

But what I want to say is this to you: Today, you were more beautiful than I have ever seen you. It could have something to do with your shorter hair, or the just right black drawing out the just right blue in your eyes. But I think it is because you let your heart bleed red in the river of words today. You took your skin off, left it in the trunk of your Subaru, and let your most naked self venture onto dry land.   You were not bound by the need to impress me or be loved by me, or earn something I cannot give you. And, because of that, you impressed me, are more loved by me, and have earned something I rarely give away.

Yesterday, there was a spider stuck between the glass and the Mark Rothco print that sits, framed, on my mantle.  I had no idea how the spider ended up inside the frame, smooshed down, its legs akimbo and useless, but still moving.  Alive somehow in small a space. Today, as we were talking, I looked for the brown dot of the dead spider.  I knew it would be easy to see. There was nothing but the print.  The sunset yellow, the confident orange. Like you, he somehow found a way to wiggle himself free. 

I am reluctant to take your coffee mug from its coaster.  I want it to sit there, next to the big chair, so that I can feel someone else in my house. You inside my house.  Outside my neighbors are talking by the fire pit. I should join them.  Sit in there circle. But I feel full enough, right now. I feel whole enough, right now. 

I am trying to think of a good last line. My friend Maya can always think of one.  That kind of ending that lingers like a strike on a Tibetan bowl. Your poems are found more in the middle, for me.  In the air that fills the bowl maybe. I will simply say this: my house chimes with you, you are still here.  Even though you are 33 miles away, part of you is sitting right across from me, talking to me now.  And for that I am grateful. 

A simple conversation

J: (10, a fourth grader): Hi, Miss R---------.
Me: Hi J-------.
J: (Pauses, just stands next to me as I am working on the computer).
Me: What's up?
J: I have a football game tomorrow.
Me: Ohhh.
J: It's at St. Ignatius.
Me: On the big field?  The turf?
J: It's a 2:30.
Me: Ah.
J: You could come, if you want.
Me: I would love to come. I will try to get there a little early so that I can see you without your helmet on.
J: Like 12:30?  That's when we are getting there.
Me: No, more like 2:15.
J: Oh, ok.
Me: What number do you wear so I can find you?
J: Um...it's in the 90's.
Me: (Laughing) Ok, I will look for you.
J: Thanks, Miss R-----------.  I am really glad you'll be there.
Me: Me too, buddy.  Me too.

Mandala Class at River's Edge

On a whim, I went to an art class and drew my thoughts, then I spoke with many people.  This is what my words look like tonight.

Contact Sheet

I took a walk this evening, past the new ice cream parlor, then The Colony where a whole soccer team full of ten-year-olds was eating platters of hamburgers and fries. Down the street, crossing paths with a man whose dog was wearing a striped rugby shirt. And then towards a new hair salon, walls dripping with wild graffiti.  No one was eating at Phiner Bistro (I have never seen anyone eat there), and only a few were snuggled in at O'Neill's, all watching a baseball game. Finally, I made it to Heights Arts and saw that the photography show is up.

Just a bit before my walk,  someone asked me how my day had gone.  And I said fine, it was a good day.  For the most part, if I had to place it in a box, "good" would be the box wherein this day would land.But as soon as I stared through the gallery window, at the dozens and dozens of contact sheets, I knew that that's what today was.That's what every day is.  Part good, part hard, part taxing, part dead dull. And if you were to take my picture at hourly increments, you would have seen an array.  Boxes filling the day,not a day simply placed in a box.

8 am - pale and unanimated, just pulling my car keys out of my pocket.
9 am - smiling, patting my favorite dog Lucy while we both watched the wallball game.
10 am - imitating Icarus falling from the sky,all of the boys' faces swollen with interest.
11 - quiet, still, checking my temperature, not sure if I am getting better or getting sick.
Noon - teasing the woman at the salad bar about her mini-egg rolls.
3 - furrowed, serious, talking to teachers about what needs to happen next. (That is always what I seem to be doing around three o'clock every day.)
5 - concentrated, chopping vegetables, sneaking a pinch full of mozzarella cheese. Thinking about my mom and how she always used to make a similar concoction during the summer months.
7 - cocked head, slight widening of the eyes, as I read, again, an email I have been waiting for for a few days.  Happy, in that slow, slightly unsteady way.

That's what it is, today.  And tomorrow. And the ten thousand next days. Contact sheets, one moment sliding to the next. Every day holding everything. Some more dense and animated than the others, but each, dotted with it all. Yes, today was a good day. And it was a wide day.  I am so wont to label and define, assert a final judgement on so many things that are so fluid.  It was important to be reminded that today was not only what I stamped at its conclusion, but so much more.  I'm going for the small tomorrow.  Not the summative verdict for the day, but the snapshots.  The many, many moments that will make up my Thursday.

They appear

...overnight, the mushrooms do.
Yesterday, my neighbors lawn was all green,
and now there are colonies of mushrooms
parking to and fro.  It feels like I just turn away,
and sneeringly, more pop up. 
Like the pounds of fat on my belly.
Ten in two weeks. I have no idea
where they came from. (Well,
actually, you know that's a lie).
They come from chocolate-covered
pretzels, and kung bo chicken with
double fried rice.  They come from
chips served with chips at 11pm.

When I had a sudden outbreak of mushrooms
on my lawn several years ago, I called
Bremec's Garden Center.  The expert
said that they were feeding off decaying wood
in the new humus soil I had layered on the lawn
for fall reseeding.  That's what is happening to me
now.  I am feeding off decaying matter in me.
The grief of something that should have been
long ago grieved.  An empty email box.
The long, silent weekends.  The many gray hairs
I now have to cover.  The fear of being alone
and remaining alone.  The deeply believed,but untended,
feeling that maybe I am not worthy of the love I seek.

In time, those mushrooms will
not longer thrive in the Theliians's yard.
The dampness will dry.  The wood will freeze over.
The condition that causes a ripeness for growing
will no longer exist.  Can I say the same for me?
For my belly?  For the hams I have wobbling
under my arms?  How do I stop the decaying?
The feast of death in me?  The feast of eating
that will cause me to die?  If you are reading this now,
pray for me.  Ask whoever you believe in the most
to believe in me.  I need it.  I really do.

Two years ago

There will always be this moment.
Not the difficulty reading the menu,
or the inability to calculate the tip.
There will always be this day,
this summer afternoon.
A day without repeated questions,
and a drive with no missed turns.
No one was lost, everyone was able.
We were all all the way here,
with each other, under a cloudless sky. 

9/11/2011

It seems like the kind of day to clean.
Wake up fast, strip the bed to the mattress.
Gather up the loose t-shirts and twice used towels.
It seems like the kind of day where every
drop of dust needs to be laid down.
Sweep surfaces till gleaming,
vacuum and vacuum again,
lines going horizontal,
lines going vertically
as if they could reach the sky.
It seems like the kind of day
to take the broom to every
crinkle of the porch.
Dig behind the wicker chairs,
even lift the rocker to get under the legs.
It seems like the kind of day to scour
the pots, and lather up
every plate in the cabinet.
Especially the bright blue one.
Somehow, today, that one needs to shine.

Sleeping in

This is my favorite time of the year, at least at this time of the year.  (In the spring, I always claim it champion).  And one of the biggest reasons is the flip and flop to the cold pillow.  Or the smooshing over to the colder sheets.  Moving from warm to cold, cold to warm.  That's where I am most comfortable. 

Some people want radiance all of the time.  Others thrive in challenge and innovation.  I want it both.  The cozy sureness, then the flip to something new.  The reward of meeting the obstacle, then the ease of not having to try too hard. 

That's fall. That's the metaphor of fall sleep.  The cusp. One foot in, one foot out.  Moving forward, while lingering in the past.  Cold pillow, warm pillow.  Warm feet, cold feet.  Adjusting in something you know, with there always being a new spot to find.

For a moment

...today I did not know where I was,
who I was, or what day and time it was.
Coming out of a too-short nap
too late in the day,
I had to scour my brain to find myself.
It was not scary, more like
diving in the deep end of the pool
to find a sparkling quarter.
Kicking, pulling, grabbing at the coin,
the lack of air uncomfortable, but not painful.
Then snatching, having,
your legs tucking into your chest,
then catapulting off the bottom,
exhaling everything in you,
until you reach the surface.

11th grade

It was a long weekend.  Too long for me.  So I took to the computer, which sadly some days is my best friend.  There's a site I go to where I can take various "tests" (and I use that term loosely.) Some are more interesting than others.  I was drawn to one called, "Are you an English Genius?"  And apparently, because I know not to say "Her and me went to the museum" and some such redneckery, I am.

Please do not tell that to Ms.  Dannon, my eleventh grade AP teacher.  She thought my most prolific skills were chatting with and writing girly notes to Amy Paulus during class.  I earned a solid "D" but because she was generous, or because I wrote a unique thesis about declining SAT verbal scores instead of doing research on a famous author, she granted me a "C."

Little would she know that I have turned into a writer.  Well, maybe not a writer, but someone who can use words as tools to express the parts of me that normally do not eek out in common living.  I am a better me when I write.  I admire the writer's thoughts in me far more than I like myself. 

There are some things I knew right away when I was growing up.  Strawberry Twizzlers are good. I will always be a world-class rock skipper.  Silence is confusing.

There are somethings I had to live into.  Like loving who I love.  Like writing.  Or putting my thoughts and feelings out there in public, like with this blog.  And even, especially in the last few years, through letters, in stories, and when I am very, very brave, face-to-face.

Had I trusted Ms. Dannon's "C,"  if I had chosen to accept that as a permanent station, who knows where I would be.  Or who I could claim as a friend.  Or if I would have ever heard my heart the way it writes to me now. 

Cozy

There are some people with whom it is immediately cozy.  Like we tuck ourselves into a nook and have a safe haven wherein to rest. Tonight I asked Pam to meet me for dinner.  We talked about the danger of boredom, rising anxiety, eating away feelings, our emotional well-being, physical shortcomings, needing others, seeking support, finding ways to serve others and save ourselves.   We ate at Luna, a new bistro nearby.  She had a crepe, I had a panini.  To the left were two women, I think. To the right, a man with a graying sexy beard and a European accent.  I do not know when he left, but he did.  I am not sure when the women to the left left.  But when I looked up, new customers had taken their places and each was well into their dinner plate.  That's what happens when I am with Pam, or Deanne, or Terre, or David, or Anne, or Mark...or when I am within myself, willing to open up and share my real concerns with others. 

Today is my brother and sister-in-law's 20th wedding anniversary.  What an accomplishment.  He has found his safe haven, and, lord, it is a crowded nest.  Four kids later, a dog, a big beautiful house that needs to be painted every ten years, work sprouting up all over the country.  Jean and Mark have built that life.  The one we all saw.  Part Dick, part Jane.  Modern-day storybook.  (And I mean that not in naive way that does not acknowledge all of the stressors and complexities of sustaining a family and its love in the year 2011).   His is a cozy life, I think, from what I can imagine and see.  And mine, even though I am not linked to another, is cozy too.Yes, I long for another.  Yes, someday I would like to toast a beloved after 20 years.  But until that's possible, I will click a panini with a crepe and be thankful for the dose of love I got tonight.  The rest I had in the cozy.  It's enough, for now, to keep me going. 

Yes, twice

Today I thought I was going to write about the name a first grader called me after school.  (No worries, it's a wonderful malapropism, not something derisive.)  As I was leaving school, Abby yelled out, "Have a good night, Miss Rhinestone." That'll make me smile for days, but even still it is not the best part of my day.

After dinner, I headed out on my moped.  I went left on Fairmount to see the Shaker Lakes The views are good, the roads are smooth, and it's always grand to look at the best housing stock in the mid-west.

As a zoomed past the Nature Center, cutting over to Larchmere, I spied two deer in a small wooded area just off the lake walkway.  I pulled over and snapped this picture.   A spotted fawn in September would be good enough, but this is actually the second day in a row I have seen her. 

And even that is not the best part of this.  I have not seen a spotted fawn in years.  Two days ago someone I just met told me an amazing story about a spring fawn.  And then -- hmmm -- I saw one.  I told her about it then she, like I, wondered if deer have two breeding cycles.  It seemed curious.

So all day I was thinking -- doubting really -- if I actually saw a fawn.  If it's even possible to see them this late in the season.  If this little coincidence between me and this new friend is a mere coincidence or that sweet synchronicity that lifts and assures me.  Yes, I believe in little signs.  Tiny alters of magic.  Nods from near and far.   I believe in the spotted fawn.  And, well, I believe in the mix meant to happen -- whatever it is or however long it lasts -- between two people who've never met.  And I believe in that thing that places glimpses of wonder right in front of us.  That thing that plops awe right down in our path.

On-ramp

Heading east onto I-90, from Tremont,
there is a peace sign road sign,
on a gray silver pole like the rest:
Merge, Construction ahead, 25 mph.
I saw it this morning after eating breakfast
with Deanne at Grumpy's,
the second most popular diner
on that side of town.
We talked about me moving.
To Santa Fe, to the Rio Chama.
I have been thinking about this peace sign
all day long. On my way to the movies,
after reading a short story about
a museum curator, while I was
eating too much dinner pasta,
as I was checking my email
to see if that new friend had written back.
It's such a simple idea:
the on-ramp to peace,
though I had no idea that it would I-90,
especially I-90 heading east.
How far would I have to drive?
To Dunkirk, NY?  Schenectady?
Maybe Chiopee, Massachusetts
just south of Amherst and North Hampton.
Maybe there, where there might be a woman
waiting to finally meet me.
Or maybe just onto the ramp,
a half mile down the road
to the Chester exit,
then 5.2 more miles to my home.
Peace?  A ramp leading to peace?
Maybe yes.  Or maybe no.
Or perhaps it's in the car, not on the road. 
In the moving, the merging, 
the seeking and the following of signs
to a place we know not yet.