Another thing I’ve learned this year is that in order for the poeming to happen, the bra has to come off. I think that is probably true of all creative ladies once they stepped into their rooms; alone or in the company of other women, the ta-tas must be freed. Unless the woman happened to be one of the tremendously-endowed, who needed structural support to lift their bosoms, in which case she would just loosen the top a bit, open the spillway, and then call their men in to paint them on canvas. History according to me.
Wicked Wednesday. That is why I blather. Nothing at work was particularly wicked, but my mood is dark. It’s seasonally-affected, maybe. This happens upon me a couple of times a year, most often at holidays at my job, this horrific feeling of doing the same thing every year, just with different faces. Lorie didn’t have is feeling this year. She did new things. My friend Jesus flew this year! With a hang-glider. Or paraglider. Some glider. Anyway. He was in the sky. I want to do new things. Today I wasn’t very Thankful. I was selfish and sad and scared to death that I was just living in some massive feedback loop in which I tell teenagers what to read and to tuck in their shirts for the rest of eternity. See? The worst kind of self-inflicted freak-out.
So, maybe I can kill Wicked Wednesday with gratitude?
Grace for the Ungrateful
And so as Decree’d, in the autumn in the Late, Latest Age of Empire, the People celebrated The Day of Ungrateful Grace, to fall on the Day before Thanks. On this day, was Given this Grace:
Dear Heavens. Dear Mother. Dear Father, Dear Whomever and Stars and Darkness, we acknowledge our selfishness and seek your pity. Forgive us. We know not what we want, or why. Drive from us our wrong desires, our consumption, our desire to hit the road, Jack, the desire to flee all responsibility and seek a life of flight. Forgive us our mired minds and our tired hearts, these weakened wills and indifferent hearts, we surrender to your will, now, if you will help us find the grace in this, the Age of Fear.
That started snarky and got different. Huh. Bed. Who is eating turkey tomorrow? More interestingly, who isn’t? If not, what are you having? Night, poem friends.