I have lit my candles. I have set on fire the corner of a perfectly dried bouquet of delicate leaves of white sage and then closed my eyes in rapture as I inhaled the heady, curative smoke. I shook off the flame and placed the smoking leaf on the house alter. I have bowed in gratefulness that there is another morning.  I sit to ponder the day ahead, the year in waiting. 

I settle in to write before a dark, eastern window.  My chair makes a sigh. I wait for light. I sip sweet, coconut creamed coffee. A thought …I stumble in the golden darkness, I raise the window over my desk, a sharp wind shocks me, chilling my face.

 I stare out into the blue cold darkness. An angry gust moves my hair, chilling my flesh through this much-loved thin cotton night-shirt. Goose bumps rise; I shiver as I pour warm seed for the greedy birds that will soon eye me nervously from their perches on the window ledge.

What do they think, do they think? Is this a necessary kindness for myself alone?  I admit, I offer this act of nurture for purely selfish purposes, in order to seduce them to me. They bless me with their brightness, their vivid reds and their stunning blue’s. They impress and inspire me with their constant energy and industry.

They are earnest, they take their breakfast with no thought of the dreamy woman on the other side of the glass, why would they? There are better trees, better breakfast companions than I.  I wonder why they are still hanging around here, it’s been twenty years. How long do they live? Are these the great, great, great, great, off springs of our first batch of winged winter consecrations?

Within the darkness of this dawn, in a house two miles away, there is an old woman wrapped in time-honored quilts. This bent woman was once my mother, my father’s wife, she is old now, her mind is gone. I should visit her later today.

I have been both a noble and a meager example of a daughter. There is a kindly woman who lives with my mother. The woman cares for her body, they have carved out a life together, this is as good as I can do for her, is this good enough? 

My mother was never at ease with me. I am her mirror image, yet, short of our common biological matters, we have struggled to know one another, to love one another. Why was there always a storm brewing between our two souls?

She held everything inside of herself; she did not want to be known. I vomited everything. I needed the universe to see and smell every abhorrent part of me. I have always felt that to love the lovable, is uninspiring.

I screamed in the street. I enjoyed being a scandal. I found myself very interesting.

I shaved my head, I did not apologize, for I have one terrific looking head. I had sex when I wanted, with who I wanted, especially misinterpreted types, like myself.  My mother found me disgraceful and she told me this, I smiled at her.

I wore micro mini dresses that grazed my hip bones, and sheer purple stockings, with runs in them, if I wanted. I grieved any stealthy act. I confessed my many carnal exploits from the roof tops. My mother did not know what to do with my boldness. My peculiarity insulted her spirit. I can be embarrassing at times. She is a lady, even now, with a foggy mind, she is a lady.

At fifty-three, I am no “lady” the very thought of it, makes me want to do something deplorable, or does it?

Come to think of it, I turned that page a couple of decades ago. I stopped being hopeless when she stopped being humiliated by me? That was a very sad time for me. I found myself lacking inspiration, I became depressed.

Light has slipped upon me. There are brown birds pecking at seeds on the other side of the window. This crone is back to the present, and she is spent.