Setting a Table

 

I love home. 

I love creating a vision for a refuge, an art studio, a dinner party. 

I love creating spaces for repose, for artistic expression, for serenading. 

I love creating spaces that are aromatic, energetic, restful, or inspiring. I love nurturing. 

If we take the case that life is something to create, something to author, a dance to choreograph...then it isn't happening to us. I love creating the life I love.

I love creating safe spaces for people, for animals, for the lost or lonely or needy. 

I love setting a table for the hungry- whether it is a physical hunger or a spiritual one, or an intellectual or emotional hunger. There is something nourishing about a soft rug, a folded linen napkin, a lit candle, a familiar prayer. 

As much as my life is bound up in the home, I feel that every day is an adventure. Everyday has the capacity, the potential to be a thing created, a thing carefully crafted with heart, soul, purpose, and with authentic self. Everyday, I am in the presence of fellow creators, of inventors and dancers and explorers and artists. Everyday, I am in the presence of the soulful, the hardworking, the curious, the hungry. Everyday, I set a table for hungry minds. 

But I reside in the consciousness that I, too, live hungry. I, too, must set a table for myself. I must feed my curious mind. I must nourish my body and my soul. I must forage my space for beauty, forage my library for new ideas, forage my yard for fresh dandelions, forage my Bible for new strength. 

Setting the table for myself is an old art, but always a challenge. Yet, I am conscious that I am always partaking of the things I serve others. It is always reciprocal. We are always symbiotic. When one suffers, we all suffer. We thrive on communion, unity, and the incessant exchange of energy, ideas, and rhythms. 

I am not an island. But I cultivate my cozy nook, arrange my table, let in the light, and bask in the rain-freshened air of an open window. I dance across the newly cleaned floors. I lie around with books, compiled notes, and all the paraphernalia of the perpetual student. 

What table are you setting today? For yourself, for others? For body, soul, and mind?

Sincerely,

Natasha

Where I Live

 

I live here, somewhere

between slipping out into newborn sunrise

feeling the dew-wet crispness of the day

and tripping out again at dusk to see the moonflower's

wide, full unfurling beneath party lights

and to the locust's buzzing lullaby.

I live here, somewhere

between the drudgery of cleaning vomit

and changing diapers, and folding endless mountains

of laundry and scrubbing floors and toilets

and donning pearls for the symphony

after eating a board of cheeses with champagne

and being awed into stillness at the sound of the cello's first yawn.

I live here, somewhere

between the barefoot chopping of garden vegetables

for roasted salsa, clad in swimsuit and denim

dancing to the beat of the Alabama Shakes

and the swathing of plush robe over pajamas

before curling up in front of the fireplace

teacup and novel in hand, listening to the fire's licking flames like friendly chatter.

I live here, somewhere

between the never-ending illness of sinus infections

and running out of tissues and watching the house fall apart

all around from the view of my bed, feeling despair creep up on cat feet

and that feeling of fullness when kayaking 

beneath the sun on waves, the scent of sunscreen 

worn like a badge as I push and test and challenge myself against the water and wind. 

I live here, somewhere 

between the maddening hours of being on hold

of waiting for the light to turn green, of haunting the waiting rooms

and scouring spreadsheets for errant expenses

and the habit of taking painting supplies on hikes

for impromptu art sessions, and al fresco adventures of all kinds. 

I live here, somewhere

and everywhere, for a moment

and another, and can see from this precipice 

that all of them are, in fact, a precious gift. 

Whitewashed

 

 I sit in the hot sun

 with a hot mug of coffee

 and feel the sweat beading up,

 the wind cooling, cleansing.

 See bare feet, 

 wiggle red toenails 

 and press the book open

 against the cool, light quilt; cotton and blue. 

 All the cleaning, 

 the tedious tasks of adulthood,

 the drudgery

 has to wait, has to breathe

as I sit and melt in the sun,

luxuriating in the stillness, 

my breath slows, my heart rests

and my mind retreats to distant lands

and older times, an oasis for my soul.

Gone Fishin'

Puffed-up mud scent 

Kicks up memories

Stirs them 'round 

And 'round like dragonflies in a dance.

Somewhere a cricket keeps a beat.

Raindrops pepper the ground,

But the water moves in ripples,

Left to right until we are mesmerized

And slowly shuffling in that direction.

The clouds above, and below 

In reflection, too;

We all shift and patter, swirl and dance

To the summertime song. 

Bring Back the Kids

 

I danced across the tile 

of the clean kitchen floor

and ate alone, in peace, at leisure,

exercising as I liked, 

enjoying hobbies at length,

I enjoyed the quiet, the echo 

of solitude, the enlightening feeling

of having complete thoughts,

and began to feel human again

for the first time in so long...what joy!

I drank my coffee hot,

had a long hot shower,

ate my food hot. 

No children to interrupt, to disrupt

to bother and trouble and complain,

to need and to ask and to cry. 

No children at last- free, free! 

Until I began to feel, strangely, slowly...

that in all my newfound space- 

space to be fully alive and independent, adult!

there was, too, that cavernous quality

about the clean (too clean) house. 

And there was the realization,

like a reflection, that left alone

I quickly become a vacuous, shallow,

self-centered person, not at all the amazing

superhuman Wonder Woman 

I once thought I would be. 

And so I laugh at my foolishness

and make a call, to bring back, 

bring back the kids,

for whom the house exists.

Brief Tutorial for Waking Up

The first step is to pry open 

the eyelids with crow bars- lots of elbow grease,

apply pressure as needed;

Then use the dolly to lift 

and heave one's self

off bed, onto floor. 

Climb the mountain to stand,

firmly planting (with trowel and spade)

one foot in front of the other, 

applying fertilizer for optimal results.

Wipe off sweat, then heave forward

suddenly, explosively, using full force!

like rolling a boulder

or like launching a rocket

or some other heroic effort 

to get back up 

and live another day. 

Rising Early

I did not know that the dew would be heavy

like bowls and mirrors hanging 

off the leaves, and leave me cold and cubed.

Or that the sun would burn round

on the horizon, copper and bronze, 

or sound like a gong from my center, somewhere close.

Or that the birds would hush 

and then sing again, faster, higher

or flash past in blues and whites, their gray-striped suits,

like strips of fabric in the wind.

I couldn't know until I woke up early enough,

pulled back the heavy lids, 

the covers like stone from a tomb,

and awakened to the new world,

presented myself to its throne and kneel, forehead soft.