Now, it is 5:17 and, while I am appalled that that first sentence took two minutes to write itself, I cannot help but notice that, already, the robin out back sounds like an AM station, repeating its earlier songs in a dependable if somewhat limited rotation.
. . . much like the monkey mind that has gripped me this spring.
And I think to myself what a waste it is, this well-worn record of imaginary conversations filling up my head when everything else should garner my attention.
So, today--right now, actually--I reach into my head for that tiresome LP, letting my nails draw themselves against its uneven grooves, hoping to do some damage, and I take that song out of rotation for good. No more fiddle farting around, I tell myself. It is time to pay attention to other things. Real things.
Like the aching beauty of the golden chain tree out front, scragglier than it was last year, yet still adorned with a hundred languorous, perfumed necklaces hanging off its branches.
Or the far-off rumble of Lincoln's midnight train as it slows into Denver with Eric and Kate aboard.
I turn my attention to Finn--my one, true disciple--now curled up at my feet, his rough fur expanding and contracting while he dreams of bunnies and bad breath.
It's working! Already, I struggle to remember the smeared edges of my imaginary conversation, its hard-to-read words slipping out my left ear.
What ho! I say to myself. And I laugh, having never uttered that saying before. But I like how it feels on my tongue, the way it lightens me as it whorls in my mouth, unfamiliar and tingly, leaking through my puffed up cheeks.
What ho, indeed, this day before me, chock full of promise.
And I feel my body turn consciously towards it, open to its possibilities.
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