A group of poets gathered in the city to celebrate the birthday of our friend Julie, a very fine writer and a sincere, authentic person. But I ended up having to miss the event at the last minute from feeling washed out. I have a tendency to overextend myself –I don’t like to miss out on celebrations, and Julie’s birthday was special. Not only does she write beautiful poetry, she also supports other poets. Plus she knows how to hold up her end of the conversation.
The night before I had given a party for two women I’ve known for years who recently retired from teaching. As the rain tore through the leaves, we sat on my back porch. Because we were all teachers, the current fate of public education in our state was high on the list of discussion topics. And we talked about our children, recent events in our lives, and books we’ve read. When it got dark I lit tea candles in colored glass holders.
My son’s friend is staying with us for ten days while his parents are in Australia, and we also have his two dogs with us, along with our dog, Duffy. Every time one of my guests came up the front stairs for the party, all three animals would go wild with different pitches of barks and whines. I love dogs, but the bark fest is starting to take its toll.
I’m one of those uber-sensitive types, and even faintly loud noises get on my nerves. Aldous and Hailey, the two doggie visitors, don’t know what to make of their human hotel, and the three canines are sort of at odds with each other’s company. Duffy wants to be the alpha dog, but the poor thing is way too submissive. Aldous, the biggest and oldest, has taken her spot under the dinner table during meals.
Being with old friends is comforting, but I do want to continue meeting up with all my new poetry pals. Next time, I hope. After the dogs go home.
A friend on twitter linked to a site that allows you to understand the relative size of the oil spill by placing it over your home town. The shadows remind me of catechism classes when I was young, and how the nuns taught us that we were born with a black smudge on our souls. I always thought of my soul at a gray ghost, stained with spirals of thumbprint ink. If my body disappeared, all anyone would be able to see was the thumbprint.
Balanced On the Edge 