Out of my left eye, I see all the colors of the early morning sky. I notice the clouds at midday. I see the bluest sky through the most dynamic, multicolored leaves, and I can hear those leaves rustle on the wind. These things catch my whole right brain, and I smile and breathe easy and all that is grandiose and awful feels miniscule. Obsolete in comparison to how small and comfortable I feel right now, right in place, in this moment.
Out of my right eye, I see the piles of mail yet unopened, the dog’s fur all around, and the compost that has lurked in the kitchen too long. I see the permission slip for the field trip that I did not sign, though it is two days late. I see the sink that isn’t running properly, the fridge that holds only lemon curd, and mayonnaise, and some old hot sauce, maybe some pickles and cheese, but not things for dinner. Condiments reign supreme.
I see the lady down the street, and she is a hoarder, and a strange smell moves off of her property and into the noses of my children, and every day they say, “it smells funny,” until I choose a different path to walk. With my soft heart, I see her smile, and we wave, and I do not say anything at all to my children. We just wave.
The other day, I thought maybe I was losing at least a part of my mind, when a sequence of events rolled by. And later, while I was washing my face, I realized that chivalry is dead and I have all the wrong bits of the equality my ancestors have scratch-fought for, and yet we have a woman running for president and she is scarier than the past, and even still, people are simply terrified of the future.
Sometimes I can’t even breathe. Other days, I look up, up, up, and I feel clicked right into place, all the parts of me a set, well constructed. And here lies the dissonance; it is now and we are here, yet we are missing the resistance.
