Upside Down Kris

Hide-and-Seek I was on the way home from my father's church when I realized I had expressed the purest part of myself. I don't mean that I had a religious epiphany: I still believe that a linking power runs through us in the form of light and nature. No, what brought the " me ness" out was a simple question: "Can you play with me?" I didn't really catch the first time she asked, but the lovely little girl Alice posed it again in a soft, undemanding voice. I scanned the basement that served our social hour and saw that all the other children had gone home. So, I quickly responded: "Sure!" What insued was an all out, chasing and dashing hide-and-seek. We were so engrossed in the game that we forgot the fact that we were dressed up. She was elf-like with her long, blonde hair accentuated by her velvet green dress and matching lacquered shoes. I was very unplay-like in my tight, goldish pants and pointed pink shoes...None of this mattered, however....

Family Gratitude I woke up today with two ideas etching in my brain: the push to restart my blog and the the tinkling in my fingers to write down all I'm thankful for.  "Why not combine them?" I thought with serendipity.  The first and last thing that filled my mind was a given: my family. Memories started flowing in...my mom sleeping in a chair next to my bed when I was in the hospital as a little girl and washing my hair as an adult after my last operation. Dad and Linda dancing in a concert outside a hostel years ago after another operation...as well as this past month with brown leaves and swamp scenes from upstate New York whizzing by as they drive us all over, making sure my partner Armi sees enough while he's here. All though this whilrwind trip, Armi has been willing to leave his habits aside. He has even adopted some of Dad and Linda's, like expressing gratitude before eating. The emotion gurgled up to my eyes from somewhere deeper as Armi gave his birthd...

The Zone of Lasts I'   ve entered the zone of lasts...the last time I will soak in the red hue of downtown, feel the wind whipping as I race down the main drag on my bike, savor the scent of dry flowers as I walk past my favorite shop admiring the tree of lights glowing all year on the inside... Last Wednesday I sang for the last time at the farmer's market. Afterward, I made a conscious effort to truly enjoy the hearty meat sauce of my gramigna while admiring the string of lights highlighting its steam. The air was just a bit biting, announcing that fall had already turned the bend. While I had been singing, the jazz singer Cristina Zavalloni passed by on her way to the cinema. I halted in the middle of my performance to hug her. Was it our last hug? She sat and listened to me for a while, and then we gave our last wave. A little while later, someone stopped to mouth the words of a song I was singing. It took me a minute to realize he was a guitarist I had sung with years ago...

The Leaving and the Giving I am leaving parts of myself all over as I pack up to go.  The first piece of me that comes to mind is the echo of my voice in the plaza, particularly in that magic moment when the lights suddenly stroke the square at  evening time.  I hope their orange halos make my voice glow, too–at least in remembrance. When I'm gone, my sincere wish is that someone says, "Where is that singer of those lovely old tunes? What a joy she was to hear!"   There is also the note I wrote anonymously to our neighbors, thanking them for their lovely garden which tingled me every time I passed it during lockdown. My letter fell through the fence and I wasn't sure if they would ever notice it. How tickled I was one day to see an envelope entitled "Dear neighbour" attached to their fence in response! Of course, there are the things I gave: the keyboard that I hope will inspire my companion's niece to flit across the keys, or the glow-in-the-dark cubes ...

Flying Feet I'm gathering up my toes and my want with them–my want to walk, to take graceful steps in life even if at times I may stumble. I suddenly realize how much I have curled them under, squeezing my whole leg with them. Sometimes the length of my big toe throbs, or there are quivers following the long side of my arch.  All I have to do is stretch my toes out, let them know that they are being listened to. If I step out distributing the pressure on all toes they feel better. They grip the ground and delight in its roughness or smoothness. It's when I don't pay attention to them that they suffer. My feet are long and thin like my father's. They are slight and my toes form a perfect angle. They could be considered "attractive" even with the thickness of my big toe nail and the slight scar as a signature across my left foot. I never really know where my feet might bring me–only my head and maybe my past know that. I feel like my feet glide with their own pu...

  Sea Legs The rushing of leaves reminds me of the rushing of waves. We are miles away from the ocean, however–nowhere near it, in fact. It has been a while since I have seen the sea–or heard it, rather. The summer has been wrung out with two dips in the pool and to-do lists. I'm not missing the sea, however. What I really crave are walks through green and expands of breath. And my wish has been granted, woven into wants of home and what I know. I will soon be walking through the woods on the western side of the U.S., and then over to the eastern fields near my father's house. But the present sky brings me back to the sea. It promises a sea storm in the smears of cobalt blue-gray that paint my mood. In reality, the air is cool and brings respite. None of the heaviness of the water beads clogs its current. It's this mix of sea and city that makes me unsure of where I am, of my place on the connecting chord. Am I being pulled to the sea as my feet grab onto the rushing sand t...

  Heaven Heaven has to be black and white, I've decided. Clouds are luminous there, so shadows are all the more prominent. The outlines of every soul are etched into a brilliant sun.  I think we wouldn't have wings in heaven–just long, ivory robes like Emily Dickinson described in her poems. They would flatter any figure, but we wouldn't care, being souls. Could we choose our soul form, I wonder? The one that we felt more inclined to on Earth, or one that wraps us in a toga of charm? Could we choose our most beautiful remembrance of ourselves on Earth? No, more likely in heaven our soul is at its purest–perhaps a beam of light or a quiver of energy. We could shine as much as the sun or just a prick of periwinkle.  Maybe we would don robes on the way up and then they would automatically permeate into the atmosphere once we accepted our real essence. Maybe some souls would be carried into the cloud canopy still decorated in human skin, only to realize in looking down t...