Views from Annie's Cabin

miscellaneous musings on aging and living and loving

Dangerous February!

Merlin & Archimedes, waiting for spring...

Merlin & Archimedes, waiting for spring…

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I woke this morning feeling all out of sorts. Nothing pleased me; nothing made me smile. I walked the dog, but she only wanted to zip out and back in quickly, so I went about my morning chores and then silpped back to Abbey my Book Barn, to my little yoga studio and did a full routine…a hybrid mix of Hatha, Kundalini and the Five Tibetan Rites. I could feel how much I needed the lengthening and stretching and deep steady breathing.

But I still didn’t feel right. Something was wrong with my inner soul, my woman-heart, my poet-mind. I was grumpy and didn’t like myself and found myself grumbling at husband, cats and dog and the world. Harumpfing and being snide. Not my usual Pollyanna self!

And then I had an Epiphany (I love Epiphanies! Thank GOD for Epiphanies!). I remembered my mother’s words to me, her warning words to me, which she issued every February: “Anne, remember, February is your dangerous month. It’s the month you always want to change your life—your hair, your job, your house, your husband, your world. So be mindful of February.”

And all of a sudden the burden lifted and I understood. ‘Tis not me at all—it’s the bleak and dispirited month of February to blame! YESSSS! I felt better, though not “better” in the all’s-right-with-the-world-immediately better; just better remembering that February’s always been my most dangerous month and that I’d better pay protective attention to my inner soul, my woman-heart, my poet-mind………

It’s like…whenever the Black Dog jumps upon me and weighs me down, I’ve learned that all I have to do is check my Biorhythms and voila! problem solved: my emotional wave is waaay down there lapping the bottom of the chart. Which, granted, doesn’t undo the problem, but it alleviates the worry from my mind. I’m reminded that it’s the Universe’s fault, not mine. I can blame it on the moon, yes, the moon, the inconstant moon—not me, this lone innocent woman who’s really trying to do her best: to meet her obligations, care for the ones she loves, and keep the creative flame a-burning all at once. (“Each being a full-time job every day unto itself,” she grumbles. “STOP IT, Anne!” her self retorts back.)

So, I’ve lived with the remembered knowledge of February’s curse now for almost a full day, thankful for the memory of my mother’s observed wisdom. And I decided that the best thing might be to sit here and write the gloom out of myself on this blog…to chase the moody ol’ Grinch of February away.

For I’ve been expectantly watching the daffodil noses push up through their winter bed of leaves…..and watching the sun glistening upon the glass of the Bottle Tree…and I’ve been watching Merlin steadying himself against the windchill of February, too. And so I say to myself, at least we’re all in this together…..and I know we’ll all survive, for we always do. For the daffodils do bloom, and the earth does quicken and my heart does warm up with every ray of sun that filters through the grey clouds of February. And the birds are singing in the mornings now despite the cold and little warm drifts of breeze nudge me on my morning walks. So I know spring is around the corner. I just pray that I can be a good girl till then…..Need your help, Mama! Stay close beside me till I’m safe…till the glow and bloom of spring warms my inner soul, my woman-heart and poet-mind once again.

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STOLEN TIME

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STOLEN TIME

Stolen time—

why is it so sweet?

What makes me

burn incense

pour a glass of wine

dine by candlelight

(morning, noon, night!)

tiptoe ‘round the cabin

listening to water—

the soft big plops

of rain on the rooftop;

the rushing waves of the high mountain storm

barrelling down the already swollen creek?

 

What makes the lines of my mouth

soften into a smile

my heart broaden widen and gladden

into a young heart again?

 

I’m in half shadow,

the dusk of twilight,

in mid-afternoon.

 

I’m alone

separated

apart

from a world

that’s

—oh, maybe not!—

waiting on me.

 

I’m in Stolen Time,

adrift with my senses.

Alone, just me

and

the soft wet roar of

delicious rain.

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