Meg Part 2

There is something comforting about spending a day unshowered, drinking endless cups of black coffee and mochas, and wearing your pajamas all day.  Something about knitting while watching one episode after another of a favorite tv series, and writing, doing yoga, painting, playing folk songs on the guitar and reading while the dogs gnaw on their age appropriate snacks, or tear at the fur on their backside in Sancho’s case, old old man, or endless bells being rung for outside in Marley’s case.  The fire in the woodstove burns slowly, the room warming in the winter chill as soft lake effect flakes fall picture perfect outside the windows.

The kettle whistles, and the dog sniffs around for more treats, the stove clicks and creaks as the iron and soapstone heat.  Oranges, bay leaves, cloves and allspice simmer in an iron pot as the aroma slowly wafts through the room.  The magenta blooms of a Christmas cactus stretches toward the window, towards the light, and the flurry of white flakes as they dance in the wind.

This perfection of alone time, this perfection of rejuvination for an introverted soul.

This confidence of faithful love and acceptance.

This warmth of loyalty and long lived affection.

This strength of mind to not participate in things that are not healthy for me.

I have not been this happy in many many years.

I would be lying if I did not admit the woodstove is smokey and doesn’t want to stay lit.  That my joints ache tremendously, that I am struggling again with my weight, and still the nag of my self esteem, and the sink is full of dishes, and the floor needs to be swept and I have a basket full of laundry to do and wood to bring in and that sometimes the sound of Sancho constantly licking the bare spot on his hindquarters is annoying.

This too is perfection, this reflection of things, this refraction of the view I paint with words.

It reminds me of a poem by Pablo Naruda, I love you and I do not love you…..

So much has been gained from such a great loss.  And I am grateful for the pearl that has emerged.

Thank you Atahualpa.  For destroying me.  I always knew you would have a profound impact on my life.  I did not know it would be my unraveling, my grit, my irridescent growth.

I am remade.


There is so much to process, all of this.

And it cuts clear to it, this notion that I have never really had anything that feels this normal.

Really normal.

And I am distracted and feeling small, in a way, small because I am 47 and I have never ever had this….this normalcy.

What do I do with it?

Sabotage of course.

Or maybe not.

And do I trust it?

Is it moving quickly.

My friend MJ, says at our age, a long courtship is ridiculous, we could be dead in two years, or three.


I walk up the hill with my old dog, knee aching.

And this morning, I have to help him up off the floor to go out.

I am filled with worry about him.  And I ask him, what can I do for you my dear?  Is there anyone you need to see before you go, and he turns his head away from me and won’t make eye contact.


And I tell him, I tell him I am worried and he offers anything I need, and he offers hope, and he offers, the warmth of those giant hands.

And when I tell him of the darkness inside me, he quietly accepts it all.


And when he tells me of his fears, I stand close to him, and looking at his lips, and his mouth, I tell him.  I am here for you.  I am here.  And I look up into his eyes.  So clear and bright, and I know what it is to be in the arms of a man.  A real one.


I have only hope.