the important book.

i found this in our school library today.  written by margaret wise brown (of "goodnight, moon" fame) and illustrated by leonard weisgard.

there is a simplicity to this writing that strikes me hard.

and on and on.  it's simply beautiful.

and so, tonight, in the style of ms. wise brown:

the important thing about fuzzy socks is that they are warm.

they can be any color

but when you move your toes around

the cozy-ness inspires you

to believe in cold weather

(no matter what the temperature outside).

but the most important thing about fuzzy socks is that they are warm.

the important thing about my body is that it is alive.

it is in good working order

it is strong in most places

it can cause me unfettered angst that i abhor

it moves, and dances, and makes love, and made babies, and crouches down to speak to five-year olds, and houses my bones and my guts and it is good.

but the most important thing about my body is that it is alive.

the most important thing about ice cream is that it tastes good.

it is creamy and cold

when you put it on your tongue

and the flavors are perfect

when the mint collides with the dark chocolate

and the coconut provides the bass line.

but the most important thing about ice cream is that it tastes good.

the most important thing about dogs is that they love you.

they are furry or hairy, tiny or huge,

pretending to be human or happily settled into canine-ness

they offer warm bodies to cuddle with

nonsensical barking

smiles of delight with tongues hanging about

endless goodness of spirit and joy.

but the most important thing about dogs is that they love you.

the most important thing about kindergarteners is that they are whackadoodle crazy-pants.

they come into the room and screech their hellos

clutch to you like tiny baby monkeys

sneeze in your face and rub your arm for comfort

laugh so much they can't stop

they are so eager to learn their bodies must keep moving

and their hearts are so big that their teachers fall in love instantly.

but the most important thing about kindergarteners is that they are whackadoodle crazy-pants.

dear weekend.

a few years ago, i posted something on facebook about being so excited about the upcoming weekend that i could fuck it.

today, i'm so happy that friday is here, but i'd rather just spoon with it, have this weekend soothe me and cuddle with me, and maybe make out with me a little.

its been a tough week.  i cried for a while a few nights ago, which is unusual for me since i've been hopped up on meds. i've had friends who are going through turmoil and sadness, and i feel helpless in my inability to change things for them.  and there are no more african black rhinos in our world anymore; they've been declared officially extinct.

this news has really shaken me up.

every so often i get that deep, deep down feeling that we as humans have fucked ourselves so completely that there is nothing to do but watch the destruction and wait for things to end.  i feel ashamed to be a human being during these times.  it filters down into my gut and settles there for a while, and i try to find good things in front of me to help me climb back up again.

like the ob/gyn dancing seconds before her double mastectomy.

and the kindergarteners playing tailor-shop-on-fire/fire-station-fire-truck-rescue at school today: nineteen children working together in chaotic free play that exemplified the kind of education i believe in.

and my son making jokes about his blossoming acne, able to look through the annoyance and find the golden humor there.

my daugher immediately loving her first piano lesson, with her declaration of proficiency still ringing throughout the house.

the take-out from the veggie grill; vegan fast food and no cooking dinner.

watching episodes of "the americans", loving the suspense, loving felicity in such a kick-ass role.

listening to the sweet, wretched sounds of the chihuahua who is staying with us for a week, and watching him cuddle with my children.

all of these things are good things.  i know they are.  i know that if i can put them in front of me, caress them a little bit and breathe them deeply inside of me, i know that i'll be okay.

in the meantime, i'm going to take a hot, hot shower.  and then read to my son, snuggled down under the comforter on my bed.  and then eat some ice cream while watching tv.  and then fall into sleep; a deep, dreamless sleep that is a balm to my heavy-heartedness.

weekend, i ask for nothing less than a repair on my heart.

landed.

back home again, children adorned in winter Red Sox hats, dogs appropriately excited to see me, showered all of the travel off of me and now i am pretending to be adjusted to this side of my life.

it had been a long time since i'd been back east during autumn, and i have to admit that it reminded me of how wounded i've been without it.  the smell alone was enough to initiate little teary eyes: that musky, leaf-cold that is warmed by the sun.  the sight of the swirling leaves and the colors, dear god, the colors!  who knew that my world had missed those so much?

i spent sunday morning raking leaves with my parents: listening to them argue about big piles versus small piles, the lost-familiar sound of the metal on the grass, the idea that the lawn was happy to be massaged in such a way, as my mom put it.  the ache that accompanies that work, so specific to the place where i used to live.

and then i was in the company of the women who have loved me through most of my life, and we laughed together in a collective breath that sustains me still.  

i drove the streets of my old hometown, marveling at the newness of it all, seeking out those places that meant something to me . . . oh look, the corner where i had my first french kiss!  that playground where we all went that time, remember?

and yet through it all, i missed my Los Angeles family, i missed my reality in this home-place.  the nostalgia of autumn is strong, potent, poisonous even--in the way that perfume is bad for you.  it is heady and intoxicating, and it makes me want to launch myself into pile of leaves and roll around like a puppy.

it makes me want to be who i used to be.

but then life moves on: my flight is on time, my best friend drops me at the airport, i get through security, find my seat and start watching what turns out to be five and a half straight hours of bravo ("vanderpump rules"-- sweet desperate gods save me) and fall into a fitfull sleep, my head knocking from side to side in that way that screams air travel.

then i'm back here, and the warm weather greets me with resolution.  we wait for the van nuys flyaway bus: me, and the hasidic man, and the persian woman, and the mexican man of indeterminate age.  these are my neighbors now: these are the colorful fall varieties that greet me and welcome me back to  this home of mine.  the concrete and taquerias and cloudless sky that tells me i am right where i should be.

still, the longing for what i just had, not more than nine hours ago . . . with those thoughts, and the smell of the leaves on my table, i sigh.

almost.

the almost of this day is shocking to me.

i was at LAX this morning.  i was at terminal 3.  i was leaving from gate 33.  i ran down that same hallway to make my flight, approximately one hour before the shooting started.

i was with people in line for security who were bemoaning their delays, who were inevitably going to have to wait because of inclement east coast weather, who, in the end, had to wait for other reasons.

they waited: mothers and children, couples about to leave on their honeymoon, business people . . .

they all waited, and were there for hours and hours.  they heard the gun or didn't; they saw the young man shoot or didn't; they ran for their lives or hit the floor, praying like we all would have prayed.

i was almost one of them.

we spend our lives in these almost-moments: the could-have-been-me moments, the there-but-for-the-grace-of-god-go-i moments.  i can't pretend to be anything but full of gratitude that my plane was already in the sky, that i was safe, that i was sound.  i can't pretend that what happened today will soon fade from my veins; that i will soon lose the almost-feeling that shakes me to my core tonight.

life goes on.  my life continues.

but the almost of this day brushed so close to me.  touched my skin and made me stop for a moment and bow my head among the rows of other almost-peoples; close my eyes to the news reports on the tiny tv screens and say a brief thank you, thank you, thank you to whomever is listening.  and then send out as much strength and love as i can muster to those left behind, waiting, waiting, waiting.

almost is good enough today.