The story just might be crazy enuf to be true

At least I’m not a pervert the girl my age yells to the man next to her in the library computer room after he accosts her for burping out loud

She doesn’t let him go and keeps egging him on

Outspoken women like this unsettle me. I am afraid she is going to turn on me and make up some faux argument toward me at which point I will stumble over my words and probably start to laugh and cry and then she will eat me

In this instance, I’d finished my research of the moment on Rocket Stoves and so left the situation and its discomfort. The question I take home is, what type of stove do I want to build? They can be built out of brick or made more fancy like in a myriad of ways…

The birds are investigating me here. I don’t exactly know what they are called, yet small one that would fit in the palm of my hand just perched on the bamboo outside of my nest. It had black grey head and a coupla white stripes. Now a dark and mousy brown one hops on the dirt on the floor beside.

What’s crazy is what I’m finished trying to hide and am now going to embrace

Do I spell it out here

Is it time to face?

Or let me reword my story in similar fashion, it’s crazy enough to believe

Today I am celebrated for being a free spirit. I am blindfolded and on my hands and knees in a room full of people. I have rolled my pants up and am only wearing my tank top. The music starts inside and I breathe rhythmically, keeping contact with my canvas. Please, can I have a blue? A dark one and the light one too?

And yellow and how about red? Black?

These bowls at my left and I on the floor, hand-dipping The paint is cold and soupy. Perhaps I am painting with a chilled squash soup or tomato bisque. I stick it to my mouth to taste. no. The colors lead me and my hands move slowly caressing the paper. I imagine touching a lover. I am on the floor in a room, people are mulling about doing chigong, reiki, acupuncture, yoga, other people are coloring, talking, observing…
I dip my hand into the dark blue paint and flick my fingertips like I do after I wash my hands and don’t use a paper towel to dry them. I flick my hand and imagine the paint hitting the canvas. This pleases me. Now I am back to rubbing, thoughtfully with great pleasure. I am a great snake leisurely uncoiling on the floor. Each time I move my languid form colors burst into the room.

Black and red now and feet and why not forearm too, the art therapist instructor is encouraging me.
My feet are sticking to the floor, I am slipping outside of the designated zone. I am enchanted with the work and it is nearly complete. I smooth over more and drizzle black paint into the upper right hand corner smearing it in a spiral with the toes of my right foot. I am in a trance, this is the best meditation I’ve enjoyed all week. Blindfolded, I am aware of my body, of the smell of the paint, the way the paint feels sticky on my skin and how this is so much like making love…

It is finished! The blindfold is taken off of me and I look at the work, discussing with Natalie her experience using acrylics and whole body rolling and pressing. I’ll have to try this naked, I realize, and my friends thank me for being in the present moment, for letting myself …. go….

Here I can build a rocket stove. When I woke up this morning, I imagined a shelter for yoga near the fence by the bamboo where the birds are landing to investigate me. My space, this womb, reminds me of magic, of home, of beauty and possibility. Walking the dirt path to it, barefoot, at night, drunken, still, or otherwise, I feel a quickening at coming upon it. This is the heart within all my cells reaching out to embrace this place I’ve imagined that has flown from me (with the support of many)shedding like a snake’s skin.

Where do I begin?
Here! With all the library books surrounding, The Timeless Way of Building, Mysteriosos by McClure, some marge piercy and rumi, hafiz and gaudi….

Breaking open I remember this life is gift and each human walking is unique as a cloud drifting. As a sun setting. The friend has a sign near her computer that says something Bout the thing about sunsets is, about their beauty, is that it’s always setting….

This poignancy is rich. In this impermanence is a promise of change of
the
inability
to
grasp

Anything, really…

Perhaps this is where much pain comes from- the grasping of things we love, moments, people, holding on to the shifting sands of time in no-land, divorced from the subtle painfully beautiful presence of that which is here and now.

To dare to love, to invest, engage is to dare that the heart be broken open again and again. This painful beauty. Loving and enjoying the sunset knowing it is in its nature to be setting…