I dreamed I told you everything, that I laid it out in logic and compassion. In my dream you understood me perfectly. When I woke up, though, I was alone. And I had not yet said a word of what I meant.
So I had over two weeks of feeling like the saddest bag of mostly salt water ever, convinced that I was entirely alone behind a wall of sorrow, or alternately convinced that I was within a web of equally inarticulately tormented people and the whole world was going to hell. I felt like a mouse running uphill on metal, scrabbling and desperate and hopeless. I was somewhat less than delightful to be around, I expect. Then I remembered that feeling that way is really, really boring, and I slept for about 14 hours and then I forced myself through some steps on a "to do" list and then I felt better; it was just in time for my birthday and I'm sure we're all very grateful that I managed to ring in a decade with a modicum of self-respect. Now I'm feeling quite nearly chipper, all things considered, and they have been.
So, hm. We went to the cottage. Some photos are here. I pulled up about 200 dandelions because I don't want the neighbors to entirely hate us but otherwise we're letting the garden go a little wild to see what all will grow, instead of trying to cut it into some shape when we don't know what shape it might already want to be. First of all, it keeps us from being robbed like the neighbors on both sides of us. Secondly, we may have some beauty already there that we've overlooked. Like: we just realized we have tulips. Everything is a metaphor for something.
This cup with its damage. Knocked down, swept off the table; it was
probably an accident. I don't remember the noise it made when it fell, when it
shattered, though I know how it sounded because I hear it in the silence when I
can't sleep. The frowny mouth open in its "oh no" shock and the cup falls,
bounces, and then kkkksssssh.
The only cup I had, the only vessel, coffee and tea and juice oh my love.
Damaged and irreplaceable. I set the pieces out and numbered,
accounted. Step one, step two, and glue and glue. Pieces of the handle never to
be seen again but I glued what I could and held it together. The glue dried. It
held water. I wrap my hands around it now and it feels like more of a gift for
having nearly lost it, hold it tight, precious.
You who want to talk about how it broke and when; you who want to talk
about why I used the glue I did; you who wonder why I didn't throw it out; you
who think I could learn pottery and make a new cup; you who, yoo-hoo. You call me
and I can hear you but I am disinclined to listen, with my hands around my cup,
its lacework of cracks are a map of my history now, and the steam rises from the
tea in a beautiful cloud through which I imagine I can see the future.