guests

My mind has felt blown open all morning, the way a meadow on a high plain might host passing gale winds – blowing along, say, a trillion milkweed parachutes. I remember those so well from childhood, the sticky, sappy whitish milk clinging to fingers while opening a ready-to-go pod and freeing its children into whatever breeze was available.

That’s how it’s been with my mind so far today, now about four hours into it. On my walk I had an image of a merry-go-round, endlessly spinning, riding on one of those painted horses (Joni Mitchell way more poetic with “painted ponies”), that dizzy, joyful feeling of whirring through the moments. Like quickly-passing, dancing milkweed siblings. All the space of the day, above a seemingly forever meadow, right there, rejoicing in the time of being a kid, clinging to the wonder of a spinning pony. A floating flowery thing.

These thoughts, these words, just showing up, guests to whatever and whoever it is my birth certificate pulled and encouraged into this Wednesday.