Regardless of what the date says at the top of this page, it's Monday morning here and it's quiet in the suburbs. I've been for a morning walk with my neighbor D. , had my breakfast, and puttered in the garden, tying up some more tomato plants that are growing at an alarming rate.
I'm tucked up here on my backyard swing, gazing at the flowers which astonish me every single day. I was especially taken with the blue flax that are growing in a patio planter nearby. They have delicate flowers that only last one day. They and the morning glories share this trait, and their blue and purple blooms capture my imagination most often these days.
I am grateful for this quiet time to sit here and write in my big red journal. These unhurried moments fill up my emotional cistern, and keep me sane.
Today I should hear one way or the other about my job interview last week. I'm nervous about working "out there". It's no place for an introvert. I don't think poets are supposed to work in offices. Isn't there some rule about that?
Oh yeah, I forgot. All the rules are being broken. It's the fashion. Only thing is, some of those rules are good. Really good. But the babies are flying, along with the bath water everywhere you look.
I don't know about other countries, but in America in 2004 if you aren't making money, you might as well be invisible. And it doesn't seem to matter very much how your make the money. Is it ethical? Moral? No matter, the money is the thing.
It's the end in itself. . . "Hey, he's a jerk. He writes atrociously immoral and damaging music that poisons young people's minds, he's been arrested for assault and drug use, but man, he is one rich M. F.! He has a Testarosa for every day of the week! You gotta respect that!"
Oh no I don't.
But back in my world. . . it's quiet. Well, except for the birds chirping and the bumble bees buzzing in the hollyhocks behind me. A dog barks two blocks away and my owl bell dings sweetly in the morning breeze. High overhead, I can hear and see a jetliner.
Even in the hazy morning air, I can see the sun glinting off it's aluminum sides. I wonder where it's headed. Denver? Atlanta? Dallas? It's going East. Making money.
Enough of this. I do have work to do. A house to clean, shopping to do. Quietly holding up my corner of the world, whether I'm respected for it or not. How many times have I heard the question? "What do you do?" I'm a homemaker. "Oh."
Wouldn't it be funny if when all is said and done, we find out that homemakers were holding up the whole planet? Like Atlas, supporting the world. That's a much harder thing to do than to buy a Testarosa.