Early morning on the deck. Stretched out in soft red house dress, toes illuminated as sun crests the spruce tree. Peppermint tea finds it way to lips, diving deep inside. Peppermint brings fresh energy, light morning zest, a remembrance of drunken summer bees buzzing in purple flowered mint glory in swampy crevices behind the garage.
Sun illuminates. Unknown birds speak insistently in unknown tongues. Singers peel their notes from maple perches. Mourning dove calls awaken the heart, begging, begging that we awaken to what we’ve forgotten in the busy movement of our lifelong days.
I almost remember.
Notebook rests, half-filled with scribbles of dreams and intentions, suffering and tears. Ecstatic bliss. This notebook birthed in 2005. Many of the desires feel ancient, unresolved, like an old spinning black record stuck in its needled groove, re-playing over and over again. In this past year the groove digs so deeply it cuts through all pretension like the darkest night. How long do we continue playing a record we’ve outgrown? When do we finally realize that we’ve moved on to tapes and CDs and DVDs? When do we release the ancient record player to its grave?
Peppermint tea simply smiles as it descends. The sun casts its brilliance on deck chairs, umbrellas, remaining drips of rain careening from the eaves. Leaf-shadow plays against tree bark, oblivious to desires or suffering.
Only mourning dove seems to understand.
Hummingbird hovers to drink from red dress, paused mid-flight.
“You’re created of nectar,” he seems to say. “Drink deeply of yourself.”
Then he flies toward his own sustenance.