30 August, 2018 Thursday
Morning is cloudy. I woke seconds before a text ding from my phone and I knew who and why. She lives in Texas and 6 am here is 8 am there and she loves to be the text wakeup rooster for her West Coast siblings. She texted she wished me well for this and that she was sorry about the rug. LOLOL. I wrote back, “I’m not, I love concrete. LOLOLOL”. Another sister’s text came in a bit later wishing me the same.
Dreams were there but beyond recall as I moved awake. The dogs did a shuffle last night. The Wizard hopped in bed and shrimp shrunk his large frame into the only spot in between Zoi at the bottom middle, two duckles at the top middle and husband and me on either edge. The Wizard had to come for heart time. He has to hug sometimes. Do not we all? Well, he is something at this. Of course this was in the wee hours when I am awake and wandering through the thoughts that waft in and out. Some with peace. Some with fear, and those I need to find a furry paw to hold to brush away.
I was imprinted with dog. No shit. Schotzy was a mini long haired Dachshund. German, tatooed in her ear, she had been the property of a Estated German who left her with his gatekeeper while he set off to paint his penthouse white in NYC. Its the 50’s. Schotzy, being pedigreed had not been spayed and the gatekeeper’s mutt was still a boy so when Schotzy arrives in NYC to penthouse white knocked up with smutt, the German passed her off. My parents had just lost a beloved duckle and their vet got wind through dinner party chat of this lovely unwed mama dog who my parents just might want. Indeed they did, had the litter smutt which yielded fine friends for friends and Schotzy was one of us. This was BM(Before Me)
A few years later, my Mama gestating me, decides she and Schotzy need to whelp together so she breeds Schotz to a nice gentleman Dachshund four months before I’m due to breathe. Schotzy again produces fine friends for friends and last pup leaves her the day I am brought, brand spanking new, through her door. My Mama’s baby practice was to have us in a basket by her side of their bed. So up the stairs we go and she plops me in the baby basket. Lo and behold, Schotz, newly empty nested, trailed us up the stairs, hops on the bed and in the basket and curls herself around me and that was that. She wouldn’t let anyone near except my Mama for the first two weeks I breathed.
No wonder I look for furry paws in the wafting wee hours.
I am a little over three. My Not Gran puts me in a stroller for a walk across the road. Schotz is in the house. A sister’s friend comes to the door and Schotz shot out to come to me. But that road was in between.
I build fences for my dogs. They do not leave my gates unleashed. And hellfire is in store for any who do not shut my gates.
So sometimes we fight. Husband wife, mother daughter. Yesterday had one. Fight’s an adjective for something. The need to erupt information plugged. In the space held with love, no matter how hard you listen for the stuff which is not coming sometimes the flow of life brings that lava, hot, burning, moving fast at you or from you. Its full of molten sorrow, unfulfilled, unmet, unheard, unseen. All that bereft we as mortals seem to acrue. Sometimes its light and easily cooled. Sometimes its too fast, too much has been a brewing. Takes a while to stop the fume. That stuff is good good earth to burst the new and fresh. Once it cools. But it takes attention to draw off heat. If left too early, it is ground for passive attack. And so many catch in that uncool place. The attention to the heat for some is just too much. Makes me so so so sad to witness.
But yesterday, after an eruption, we found the words and heart and the attention to reach to all the places left aside too fast. And we could hug again. It is a love space. Safe to erupt. I was not blameless about its start, Yes, I cop. And so did all of us out loud to each other. Makes me happy. Its working, this collection of us.
Tea is black with cream and honey.
So then I found my music space again. I sing and strum, partnered by two creatures of wood and string which call my song. Hadn’t done it for a while. I sang my Mama to sleep, you see. My throat was closed for a long long time and even yesterday there was one song I could not sing for weeping. But others came. My fingers remember their string dance though their tips are sore this morning.
Paws and Songs.
Ta.
Tea With Me 
XXX
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