Rustlings

There has been a dearth of wind in Seattle for months, and not enough definitive pounding rain on my attic roof, besieged, as we are, with interminable grey.  (From which Seattle gains its fame.) I think it's the omnipresent grey that drives people away rather than actual precipitation, which, statistically, isn't necessarily on the generous side. NYC receives more rain per annum than Seattle does. Go figure.

But a wind has rustled itself up tonight, and after an evening spent with my best poet-friends, and one of those discussions over wine which digs deeply into the heart of things, there comes an ease which knows no other inception than just these things: wind, poets, wine.

There exist turbulent rumblings all round my modest peaceful core — my older son was rear-ended last week and is dealing with the complications of a concussion and whiplash, both profoundly disturbing, with persistent headaches, dizziness, double-vision. He just last month began a new school program, a jump-start to his life which has faltered these past few years due to a pile-up of unexpected circumstances. It seems to be a quarter step forward and twenty steps back. He might have to withdraw from one or two of his classes to get his jolted skull some time to heal. I would like nothing more than to see this young man soar, yet it's challenging, after 27 years of falling down, to keep any kind of faith.

And one of my closest friends, a man who owns a large part of my heart, awaits his own deadly diagnosis. Just one phone call, and the rest of his life will chart itself out.

Yet, in the midst of these bruisings of the heart come flickers of surprise joy, flashes of light so dazzling I hesitate to look straight-on, rendered shy and in awe of the possibilities of love and redemption.

This is my world, set before me with every planetary rotation, and I'll take it.