Posts Tagged ‘child care parking permit’

Roll With It

June 8, 2016

I mean.

It was a weird day.

Not a bad day.

No.

Not at all.

But hella weird.

Wacky.

Occasionally wonderful.

A bit on the oddball side.

I got things that I was afraid I wasn’t going to get.

I got asked out.

I was called beautiful and spiritual.

Which, oh, not a Tinder date, fyi, who does that anyway on Tinder?

I am swiping yes because I find you spiritually compelling!

I was quite flattered by the ask and now we have a coffee date for this Saturday.

I actually remember meeting this person years ago and thinking, hmm, I think he finds me attractive and wondering if he was going to ask me out then.

It’s been awhile since I have seen him, but apparently he did not forget and reached out today and that, well, that was nice.

I also got my replacement permit!

I actually did not believe I was going to get it.

I went into the SFMTA pretty much, like, ok, just be prepared, it probably ain’t going to fly, but I’m going to try anyway.

And.

It was amazing.

It was a completely different experience.

There was no line to get into the line.

The area was 3/4s less full then when I went last week.

The woman who helped me was sweet and friendly and we chatted and the next thing you know, after she casually flipped through all the paper work, hands me the new permit.

Here you go.

And I’m on my way.

TWENTY MINTUES LATER!

I got to work early.

Parked and cleaned off my fender.

I peeled the sticker and made sure it was stuck.

In fact, a little later in the day when I was making one of my many runs around the neighborhood, this time just to the corner market, I went back to my scooter with clear packing tape and taped the fucking permit down to the bumper.

No more falling off.

Because I don’t want to do that show at the SFMTA ever, ever, ever again.

The boys were with the mom a lot today and so I spent the majority of my time taking care of food prep and cooking–butter lettuce wraps with ginger chicken and hoisin sauce, green onions, celery, water chestnuts and brown rice.  Plus, tomorrow there’s an errand we need to run in the morning, so I packed up a big picnic lunch to take to the beach for the boys and the mom.

I’m actually not sure what I will do for myself tomorrow since my little sea food stew makes better being heated up.

I’ll figure it out, I don’t feel like doing it right now.

I feel like just letting the day lose itself off my skin.

I really did roll with things well today.

Even when I got the un-expected amends.

Please people, just a reminder, more to myself than anyone else, it’s not really an amends if you’re doing it to make yourself feel better.

I got a loopy apology from someone this evening that was so distinctly uncomfortable to hear that I am surprised, in hindsight, to see how calm I was and that I was able to say thank you and I’m glad you feel better.

Because the apology, for behavior in the past that was not much different than the behavior manifested every other time I have engaged with the person, was more for them to feel better than me and I realized.

This person is desperate to feel better and who am I to get in the way of that.

Hasn’t he had enough sorrow in his life already?

I can accept.

I didn’t need the apology and for a minute I was rather hot with a touch of annoyance, but it faded off quickly as I scootered off into the fog.

Karl the fog.

My how you creep.

My how much like having an expensive dermabrasion whilst riding my scooter home.

I chuckled, really it’s like getting free aqua therapy for my pores as my face was blasted with fog, I should get a face cover, I don’t think the fog is going to let up any time soon.

Sorry.

I digress.

Anyway.

By the time I was on the Pan Handle I had let it go and forgot and I don’t need to be right, I don’t have to tell anyone how to do it right or better.

I just get to improve myself.

I can feel the experience and know for my future actions what felt good and what felt bad and go from there.

Act according to how I want to be treated.

The man was miserable, and had apparently been carrying this thing for years, and I felt compassion for him and also a modicum of empathy with his experience, which is far different from sympathy and perhaps, at least in my opinion, more human.

So.

I got to be a human.

I got to take a couple phone call check ins as well when I got home and I don’t know where the words came from, I just shared my experience, my strength, my faith.

Hope sometimes is not the word that best expresses it for me.

Faith is the wheelbarrow that carries hope across the high wire of my desires.

I often don’t get what I want.

This is not a bad thing.

If I got what I wanted I wouldn’t be of service the way that I have been culled for.

I am lucky.

I could be one of those people that I see on the streets wrapped up in old sleeping bags, there but for the grace of God, go I.

I could be the girl smoking crack on Capp Street.

I could be the woman bent over searching, searching, searching for that crumb on the street.

I could so easily have fallen through the cracks.

And the fact that I still get to be here.

To be apologized to awkwardly.

To be given a permit to park where I work.

To be able to accept the compliment of being beautiful in someone’s eyes.

To be considered spiritual.

To get to be this human.

This woman.

This child of God.

I can roll with that.

My life is on and on and on.

A constant source of amazement.

Seriously.

Luckiest girl in the world.

All day long.

 

Advertisements

Ticket Please

May 6, 2016

Wait.

What?

No.

NO.

Damn it man.

I got popped.

My scooter, sans the Childcare Parking Permit, finally got hit today.

At the same time the mom was bringing the boys home from school on the double tandem electric bike the family has.

Argh.

All the boys could talk about was the ticket for a good couple of hours, how I was going to jail, how I was bad, how was I going to pay for it, have I ever gotten a ticket before?

All the little boy questions in the world.

I knew it was coming, I was just hoping to get things sorted out with the SFMTA and slide under the radar until I would have the time to go down to their offices on South Van Ess and get a replacement sticker.

I was going to pay it, the ticket, that is, until I saw that I could contest it online within 21 days of receiving the citation.

I didn’t have it in me tonight to formulate the argument, suffice to say, I have the photo evidence of the parking permit and all the documentation as well as a time date stamp of the e-mail to SFMTA, I just wanted to get on finishing up my paper for Multi-Cultural class and get my reference page typed up and printed out.

Done and done.

And now, I don’t have the stuffing in me to do any more work or to formulate any more arguments.

The lady is tuckered out.

Yoga kicked my ass this morning.

Seriously kicked it to the curb.

Between an intense yoga class and still feeling a little sore and tight from the bike ride yesterday I was already down for the count before even getting to work.

And work.

Well.

It was work.

The mom always has me do weekend food prep for the family, but it increases whenever I am heading into a school weekend since they are without me for three days instead of two.

I did a lot of cooking, laundry, food prep, run to Lucca–where the guys were super flirty with me today, hello, guess I looked cute in my polka dots–and since it’s Thursday, a big outing with the boys to the Mission Farmer’s Market on Bartlett and 22nd.

I love going to the market with the boys.

It’s nanny heaven.

Fruit samples.

Cheese curd samples

Friends from the neighborhood.

Friends from school.

Art projects.

Face painting.

Live music.

It is eclectic Mission neighborhood and a sweet reprieve out of the house for me.

We had a lot of fun at the market today too, since the Golden Gate Parks Department had a mobile ranger station at the market.

Temporary tattoos, badges, stickers, sign up for Junior Ranger Camp.

The boys were over the moon and it was a happy time for them, even as they were straining at the bit to get back to the house and have dinner as soon as possible.

The little guy walked into the house this afternoon, and the one comment out of his mouth before the barrage of “you got a ticket on your scooter,” was: “Oh! Yummy, the house smells yummy, Carmen, CARMEN.”

“Yes, __________,” I said, softly ruffling his head and picking up his little back pack and sippy cup.

“Did you make chicken pot pie for dinner?  I LOVE chicken pot pie,” he asked with serious big round brown eyes, arms wrapped around my knees.

“I did!”

“Yay!”

He jumped up and down and then proceeded to give me all the details on the meter maid.

I have to say that despite my sadness over the ticket and a moments rumination on how I was going to deal with it, pay it, contest it, etc.

I was really proud of how I handled it with the boys.

“Are you unhappy,” the oldest asked me, very serious and solemn.

“Yes, of course I’m unhappy,” I told him, “but unhappy is just a feeling and it will pass and I am already in acceptance about it, I’m ok, I’m not hurt, my scooter didn’t get squashed, there was no accident, I have the money to pay for it, I’ll be alright.”

“Will you go to jail?”  He asked eyes somehow growing wider in his face.

“No, honey, I am not going to go to jail,” I replied and squeezed his shoulder softly.

He breathed a deep sigh of relief, “that’s good, because, Carmen, you’re the best, and I would miss you if you were in jail.”

“Aw, sugar pie, I would miss you too,” I crouched down to look him in the eyes, “but I promise, I’m not going to jail.”

After that.

Well.

It was over.

There was no drama, there was no further story to tell.

It’s interesting, this letting go of the story and of the dramatic.

I find I just don’t have the time for it or the energy and well, it’s not really all that interesting.

I have much more fun stories to tell.

Like.

It’s my last weekend of the year for my graduate school program!

Yes.

I get to see my cohort and friends and participate in my education and show up having written all my papers and having done all my reading.

I am ready to go.

Lunch and dinner are prepped, extra coffee in a Mason jar to take to school, lemon ginger tea, a bag of organic cherries, my books, readers, and notebooks already in a sack.

All I have to do is take the laundry out of the dryer, fold it up, put it away, make a little more tea, watch Daredevil, just a tiny bit, just to unwind a bit, and go to sleep.

I also have a slumber party Sunday night with one of my girlfriends who normally would leave town right after the last day of classes, but is going to stay here and we get to hang out and she’ll get a tiny taste of my SF life.

Plus.

Heh.

I get to have a second date Monday night with the gentleman from last weekend.

Yay.

I’m ready people.

Let’s do this thing!

Replace A Permit

April 28, 2016

But let me start the blog by saying.

Acceptance is the answer to all my problems.

Good lord.

I had this odd feeling to read that little bit in my favorite book, not a book that I talk about much, well, here, but I do talk about it a lot, I read it daily, I have a sort of morning routine and it was suggested to me last time I met with my person that I read it.

“Ugh,” I said, “I just read that, I mean, literally, I just read that.”

“Read it again,” she said and continued on making the suggestions.

Of course I totally didn’t read it, I already have my morning routine, I don’t need another thing in it, don’t you know who I am?

Don’t you know how fucking busy I am?

Don’t you.

Um.

Heh.

Shut the fuck up, Martines, and take the suggestion.

And I remember to do so this morning, it was just the oddest little reminder, hey you, remember that thing that was suggested to you?

Yeah, that, read it.

It will come in handy today.

I did my regular readings and then I flipped open the book to that part and I read it again, for the who knows, 100th time, at least, and of course.

I got something from it.

“There are absolutely no mistakes in God’s world.”

Oh yeah.

Thank you.

Yes.

Exactly!

I promptly forgot that, but it came back to me as I prepared to launch out into my day.

Already feeling like I had had quite a day.

Morning routine, little kneel down, say the good words, get the acceptance on, ask for some guidance, ask to be of service, help me get to work safely and home safely on my scooter, be patient, kind, tolerant and loving, you know, the basics.

Breakfast.

Coffee.

More coffee.

God damn I love coffee.

Thank you God for coffee.

I digress.

Writing.

Face Time with Saturday’s date.

Slightly awkward, bad connection, he caught a screen shot of me with my mouth wide open in what looks like a classic horror movie still.

Or.

A really bad blow job face.

Ugh.

Erase that now, I asked.

I don’t think he erased it.

We chatted, it was a bad connection, so phone check in re all the things.

Then off to scooter to the optometrist to pick up my fancy schmancy new prescription sunglasses.

My first ever pair of prescriptions and I spent a pretty penny on them, most expensive pair of glasses I have ever bought, but the frames are gorgeous (I actually rued not getting them as a straight up pair of frames with my regular prescription, I think they may look better as just plain glasses, but oh well, I got them now) and I was absolutely astounded by how good everything looked.

Like.

Man.

I should have done this sooner.

They are fantastic.

I could see everything clear and crisp and there’s not glare on the road and whoa.

Plus, it’s nice to have sunglasses, I haven’t really worn a pair of them, outside of that thing in the desert, since I started wearing glasses again right before my 40th birthday.

Yes.

So lovely to see.

Even though.

Sometimes.

I see things I don’t want to see.

Or I see things that are missing.

LITERALLY.

Fuck me.

My child care parking permit was not on my scooter this morning.

Really?

REALLY?!

Where the fuck is it?

I’m not going to be able to park on the block at work without the permit, I’m going to get tickets, I’m going to have to ride my bike again, I’m so used to the scooter, I don’t want to.

I.

Shhh.

Acceptance.

Ah.

Big old sigh.

It’s not like I got hurt or lost something that can’t be replaced.

Even though when I told my employers, the mom acted like I wasn’t going to be able to get another until the permit expired in November.

Well.

I guess I’m getting back on the bicycle and bike commuting again.

Grrr.

I have to meet my person in the Castro tomorrow night at 18th and Diamond.

I hate that hill on a one speed.

Frogs.

Except.

Hmmm.

I bet I can still ride my scooter in.

I did today and the parking meter dude zipped right past me without bothering to stop and he did not chalk my tire.

“I bet they’re used to seeing your scooter and they know that it’s got a permit,” the mom said.

“You could park it in front of the garage if you think you’ll feel better about it there,” the dad said.

“I think it’s ok and I’ll figure out what I can do to replace it, if I can replace it, and if I can’t, I’ll be riding my bicycle back to work again,” I said, thanking them and getting on with the work that needed to be done.

Run to the market, get fixings, run to Lucca Ravioli, get tortellini and pesto for dinner, make a vat of broccoli soup, cook up some rice, make snacks for the boys, God, they were adorable today.

“I’m going to marry Carmen when I grow up,” the youngest said today.

Now that’s a first, it’s always been the six year old who has said I was his betrothed.

Then.

“No, you can’t, she’s too old for you,” his brother said.

Ouch.

I mean, yes, of course.

“Besides, I’m marrying Carmen, you can marry somebody else,” he finished.

Oh my God.

The cuteness.

He tugged on my hand later as we were walking to the park.

“Yes pie,” I asked looking at him, “what do you need?  Do you need a snack?”

“Nothing,” he replied, “I just need to kiss you.”

Oh.

Heart melting into puddle on sidewalk.

Then he kissed my hand.

Love my job.

Sometimes it just astounds me that I get to do this job, that I am entrusted with these two children, that I have gotten to have a little hand in raising them, loving them, being there for them.

And I have loved all the children I have nannied.

They have all left a little impression of themselves on my heart.

Some bigger than others.

Fingerprints smudged with childish laughter, the first I love you’s, the first smiles, the first hugs, the moments when they fall asleep on my shoulder, soft and heavy and luscious with the smell of sleep.

Luckiest girl in the world.

My little love bunnies.

My heart is full.

Deep and satiated with happy.

And it turns out the I can get a replacement permit from the SFMTA for the small fee of $18.

Although I will have to show up at their office, to do so, it has to be done in person.

Fine.

I can spend a morning doing that.

I think that’s called “adulting” or something like that.

I can accept that.

I was primed to do so this morning.

May I always be so flexible.

It really is the easier, softer way.

Something like this would have wrecked me for weeks, now, today.

Not so much.

I have other things to think about.

Dream about.

Plan for.

Papers to write.

Articles to read.

Ships to sail, tattoos to get, check books to balance, kissing to be had, dancing to be done, bills to be paid, life to be lived.

One beautiful.

Infatuating.

Glorious.

Day at a time.

 

Things Change

February 12, 2016

On a dime.

Or on a nickel.

Or on $5,000.

Um yeah.

Like that.

Fuck me.

I was not expecting to see that in my account this morning.

I was getting ready to write my morning pages, gearing up to do my last edit and go over on my Clinical Relationship paper, first paper of the second semester, make sure that I get the APA formatting correct–still not sure about it, but I used the Purdue OWL and it’s pretty freaking handy–and I thought.

Hmm.

I wonder if that check to the SFMTA has finally cleared.

I mean, they called my employers to go over a last few minute things to make sure that they, my employers, were aware that they were not allowed to transfer the permit to anyone other than me or put it on any other vehicle they may own.

Ayup.

My boss told me this yesterday and I took that as a good sign that my permit was in process.

So.

I checked.

And then I nearly shit my pants.

I am not kidding.

I’m a little embarrassed to say that, but my bowels knotted up.

What the fuck?

Why is my account got that much money in it?

Then it clicked.

My scholarship.

Oh my God!

My scholarship.

When the school sent out a notification that financial aid disbursement would happen on the 10th of this month I was expecting it all to be disbursed.

It was not.

I was confused when I checked out my account after getting a deposit of $477.

I was expecting $1500.

I was hoping to at least pay for one months rent with it, especially since the rent is going up next month.

But.

I was grateful that there was anything left over after paying for my tuition.

And so I just assumed that was it.

I did check out my financial aid page last night, but it was confusing and I just sort of let it go, assuming that was that.  Tuition was paid, be happy.

Then.

This morning.

I checked my online account.

And there it was.

My scholarship was deposited to my account today.

The 11th.

Holy shit.

I haven’t had that much money in my account ever.

Still some left from my tax return and then this new deposit.

My first thought was, it’s a mistake.

My next thought was, is it my scholarship?

It is!

My third thought, ugh.

Wow!

That could buy A LOT of cocaine.

(But never enough, oh no, it would not, in the end be enough at all)

And then.

I laughed out loud.

Once an addict.

Always a fucking addict.

I remember when I first got sober.

I was extremely uncomfortable with anything more than $20 in my wallet.

I didn’t want to have enough to score and for probably the first year I didn’t ever have $50 in cash–what my dealer was selling a gram of coke for.

I don’t even want to know what the cost of it is now.

Don’t bother telling me, I don’t want to know.

I scrolled through my online account and saw, yes, it was my scholarship money.

Hurray!

And the reason it was so much more, the disbursement, I realized, was that there is not a spring retreat.

The cost of the fall retreat came out of the scholarship money, and what was left over was about $1500.

It all suddenly made sense.

And I was blown wide open.

What am I going to do with all this money?

Well.

I am not going to be stupid.

First.

I wrote out the rent and utility check for March.

Just get that the fuck out of the way and don’t think about it.

Then I put the majority of it into my savings account.

I left myself a little bit.

I do plan on taking some yoga classes and the best bang for the buck is to get a year membership at Laughing Lotus.

It costs about $900.

I am going to go in Monday after work and my tea date with a girl friend in the Mission and get the $30 month long deal and see how I feel about the studio and if the classes are a good fit for me and my schedule.

I also still have the option to go to the studio in my hood, the Laughing Lotus studio just has a much greater range of classes and times that seem to fit my schedule better.

I have all next week to explore.

And I have the money to do so.

Wow.

I am so grateful.

So, so, so grateful.

I mean.

Things are being taken care of.

I am ok.

I am better than ok.

Hell.

I got a new pair of Converse delivered to the house as I was cleaning (procrastinating finishing my paper) and getting my stuff ready for work and the impending school weekend.

Black glitter Converse.

I have no needs at all.

I mean.

You know.

The basics, love, food, sunlight of the spirit, recovery, joy, friends, life, etc.

But.

I mean.

After you get a pair of sparkle pony Converse in the mail, what needs does one really have after that.

Oh yeah.

I still need to get laid.

There is some movement on that end.

But really, this weekend is devoted pretty much to school and showing up for the commitments I was asked to do, the sharing my experience, strength and hope on Sunday, the showing up for my cohort and for my life.

I am not going to get worked up about it.

I’ll save that for when I have a little more time.

I almost swung by Good Vibrations tonight on my way home.

But.

I decided.

Really?

Do I need a new vibrator right now?

Let me just hold out through the weekend.

I don’t need to get out of my head that bad.

I did have some conversations rattle around.

Some old talk that was looking to grasp hold and make me miserable and I was like, hey, thanks for sharing, but I’m good with all of that.

Let it go.

Surrender.

And be hella happy that I have money, that I am not homeless, that I have clothes on my back and polka dots sneakers on my toes, be happy that I didn’t catch the flu that the entire family came down with at work, be grateful that I have a week off from that.

Granted, yes, I’ll be heading to work on Monday, but, on my scooter and without the family there is a totally different experience.

I’m ready for it to all begin.

I have my school lunch packed.

I have dinner plans with a classmate for after school.

I have my outfit picked out.

I have my paper printed.

Yeah.

I did finish it, I did print it off, and I have it ready to turn in.

My books are packed, my notebooks sorted, my readers prepped.

And now.

My blog finished.

And.

I am rich.

Well.

Ok, not really, but in other ways I have such abundance and prosperity.

That yes.

I am wealthy indeed.

Flush, you could say.

With.

Experience.

Strength.

Hope.

And a couple extra shekels in the bank account.

Ha!

 

One Month Out

November 19, 2015

I realized today when I was writing my morning pages that I have one month of my first semester of graduate school left.

Panic.

Not really.

I did numerate the number of papers I have to do times the amount of reading I have to do and I said to self, “self, chill the fuck out, you’re doing fine.”

Then I addressed some things that needed addressing.

I got the rest of my paperwork sorted out for my child care parking permit at work, wrote out a check for $111 to SFMTA and hopefully, in approximately the same amount of time that it takes for me to finish up my first semester of grad school, I’ll have a permit.

This will be great timing as my work schedule will likely change while I am on the winter break.

The boys will also be on winter break and I suspect that I will have a schedule that is closer to 10 a.m. to 6p.m. Monday through Friday.

As opposed to the 1p.m. to 8p.m. it is now.

I may miss putting the boys to bed, but I am going to enjoy getting done a little earlier in the evening.

I’m not much for working until 8p.m.

I’m used to it at this point.

But.

Last night.

For instance.

I did not want to have to talk with my psych(e)analytic professor at 8:45 pm at night.

No thank you.

However.

There was certainly no other time of day that was going to work and I found myself defending the paper I wrote for the class.

It was challenging and enlightening.

And painful.

I found some old stuff came up for me around my father.

Grief stuff.

Sadness.

The rupture of the relationship, the longing for a father growing up.

The not having one at all.

And I’m not complaining, there are plenty of people who grew up without their father around.

Or grew up with an awful father around.

At least, or so I assuage myself, I had the fantasy of a father.

I never got the reality of it.

Except those times when I got to tell him I could not have him in my life any longer.

That was real.

It is not that way now.

But.

I don’t have contact with him.

There is no there there.

I got to express some of that while talking with my professor on my paper which was an extension of the Mourning and Melancholia lectures and readings of Freud.

What I found out was that I did not adequately address all the issues of the professors request.

However.

In 30 years of teaching she has never gotten a paper like mine.

I wrote her sonnets to explain the Freudian papers and readings.

She told me she actually had to look up some words.

I am not sure that I believe her there.

The woman is a smart cookie.

But she did ask me to explain to her what I was writing about and by the end of the discussion she let me know what I was missing and how I came closer to writing a paper on the Repetition Compulsion.

I completely agreed with her.

However.

That was not the topic and interestingly enough, I had not know about the Repetition Compulsion when I was writing it.

But man, it sure as shit smacks of it.

That is.

Repeating the same thing over and over despite it being painful and not understanding why you keep doing the same thing.

It sounds a little like insanity.

Repeating the same actions.

Expecting different results.

And yes.

I do know how that feels.

I don’t always succeed in trying different things, I don’t always figure out my way to a different place, sometimes I have to get nudged, some times I have to stumble.

Often times I have to fuck it up.

But.

Every once in a while.

I see that road with the pot hole in it and I decide to not walk down the street and peer into it.

To see.

Just in case.

You know.

Anything has changed.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing has changed.

It’s all the same mess in that hole.

What has changed is that I recognize the street and tend to not walk down it anymore.

I changed.

The hole doesn’t have to change.

The things in the hole, other people and how they need to do it differently, don’t have to change.

But.

When I do.

Wow.

Things change.

Like being in graduate school.

It really is a gift, a great big, huge, scary, frustrating, amazing, awesome, awful, wonderful gift.

All the learning.

All the growth.

All the new friendships.

I got messaged today about possible jobs.

At $45 more an hour than I make now!

That made me smile.

I am not qualified.

And my friend in the cohort who sent me the message knows that, but it’s an inkling of what is to come.

I also got a sweet text message from another friend in my cohort about getting to see me on the weekend and I am super excited to see her too.

I love that I have made new friends.

Hell.

That one of my new friends will be in Paris visiting her family while I am there with my friend.

I am so excited to be going.

Even with the unrest and the tensions.

Unless the borders are closed.

I’m flying in.

And I suspect that it will mean even more to me, to walk the streets of the city, to see the lights, to be exuberant and myself and alive in the museums, to see the art, to sit in the cafes, to people watch, to wander, to get lost, to mail myself (and others) postcards, to speak French, even my poor passable French, it’s still a joy to hear it.

To ride the Metro and hear the Metro stops.

I swear.

This was one of the ways I practiced my French was to repeat back exactly the sound of the Metro operator reciting the stops.

Les Sablons.

Palais Royale Musee du Louvre.

Square D’Anvers.

Cadet.

Trocadero.

Passy.

Le Motte Piquet–which is the stop where I will be getting off frequently as it is the one closest to the studio in the 7th where I am staying.

I am excited.

And it’s a month away.

It feels light years away as there is a whole lot of school work standing in between me and my passport going through customs, but it’s closer every moment.

I’m just about ready for the next weekend in school and I am excited to be doing this work.

It is intense and it is big and it is exactly what I am supposed to be doing.

I know this.

Even when I get overwhelmed.

The time it all seems to just fall into place and if I can slowly chip away at the work, before I know it I will be on a plane heading to the City of Lights with a heart full of joy and gratitude.

Just got to make it through this next month!

 

I See You

November 13, 2015

I whispered to him as he sped across the road and disappeared down the walk way adjacent to Chain of Lakes.

I saw my first coyote this evening on my way home from doing the deal at Cafe Flore.

I was just turning onto Chain of Lakes on my bicycle, a smooth, no stop turn, the whistle of the cold wind in my ears.

It’s cold out baby.

I could use a warm snuggle right about now.

I was thinking of warm snuggles in fact, it helps to keep the cold at bay to think about the warm.

I was thinking about all sorts of things.

I was thinking about Paris.

I was thinking about the press of the stars in the sky and how low they swung this evening, perhaps as I was coming home through the park at a slightly later time then I normally do on a Thursday.

I was thinking about kisses.

I was thinking about poetry.

I was trying to not think about school.

I woke up this morning a little anxious and I recognized it quite quickly as school anxiety.

So.

I did my deal, I knelt, I prayed, I read some things, I said some things, I had some breakfast and then I wrote.

I wrote it all out and by the time I was done, starting with the smallest thing, the only thing, the one thing that is important and true, my sobriety, from which all else stems, I recognized and wrote down all the good things I have going on.

If nothing else that above fact, makes my life manageable and contained and there really is nothing wrong.

Add to that the gift of being in school, it is a gift to be there.

The job.

The little in-law I live in.

My dear and darling friends.

My bicycle.

My scooter.

My scooter for which I am 3/4s of the way towards having all the paperwork done so that I can apply for a child care parking permit and park in the neighborhood where I work.  I have only to wait on my insurance paperwork, that should be here any day now, to finish up the application.  That and a check sent in to SFMTA and I’m set.

Of course.

The small print–it will take up to 21 days to process.

But that is fine.

I can continue to ride my bicycle to work and it’s just a little delay.

Yes.

Grateful for the scooter, for a home to park it in front of, for having taken the motorcycle safety course, for the entire thing being paid in full.

Grateful.

I rationally wrote all these things down.

Acknowledged my fear of there not being enough time and said, so what if there’s not enough time?

The time is that there is time.

Time and more time.

I could measure it in teaspoons.

Hang it from the cusp of a moon.

I could wander down halls lit with lanterns of time.

There is time.

And more time.

To fill the hours.

The days.

The moments.

Infinity in a parsec.

I have all the time in the world.

I am of time.

I am in time.

The slower I go.

The more time I have.

Time.

Always this time.

The watching hands on my wrist.

The call of the hours at noon on Tuesday.

The wind in the high trees.

The sloughing sounds of leaves telling the time of autumn.

The fall of time.

Marching down the long avenues.

Getting stuck in the church pews.

Swinging in an incense pot.

Red light candles and the decrepit

Crumbling of stone in St. Augustin.

I have more time than I could ever use.

There is no lack of time there.

There is only more and more.

An infinity.

A chorus of seconds and milliseconds.

Of minutes stretched between the high pillars

Hiding under the doom of night.

There is only this.

And.

In this this.

I exist.

At one.

Apart.

Final.

Complete.

In this time.

I am time.

Wounded.

Solaced.

Loved.

Graced with the singing.

The music of the spheres.

The metronome of God.

Art installation Centre de Pompidou

Clock at the Musee D’Orsay

DSCF5270

Ahem.

I have no idea where that all came from.

Ha.

But I rather like it.

A little inspiration from the Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by my favorite poet, TS Eliot.

I like how Eliot writes about time.

There is a succulence there and a tenderness that is also hard and can at first seem as though the poet is battered on these shores of  millenium and the magnitude of time.

And.

There is a bubble of love.

That in which the eternal is always here.

In this moment.

Where.

Yes.

Mathilde.

Everything.

EVERYTHING.

Is perfect.

There are no problems in this moment–there is tea in the cup, sweet candles burning, Coleman Hawkins on my stereo, there are flowers in a vase, a tidy home, a warmth and glow to it, there is love.

“Are you poisonous tonight?”  I asked the five-year old who was cuddling with me on my lap, decked out in aqua blue and sea-foam green striped pajamas.  He will tell me that he is poisonous when I make the attempt to eat him.

“Maybe,” he said, “you’re not really going to eat me though, are you?”

“Nope,” I replied and touched the tip of my nose to his and wiggled it softly.

He scrunched his face in delight.

“Then how come you always say that?” He asked, all seriousness.

“Because you are delicious and I want to eat you!” I replied and squeezed him.

“No, that’s not it,” he folded his arms and looked at me with big deep brown eyes.

“Hmm, well, ok, it’s because you feed my heart,” I said.

“How?”

“You know how all living things need air to breathe and water to drink and sunlight to grow?”  I asked him.

“Yes.”

“All living things need love too, I need it to grow and thrive, and when ever I am with you, you feed my heart with love and it gets bigger,” I took a deep breath, I hadn’t known those words were coming out of my mouth, and tears swam in my eyes.

“Carmen, I love you.”

“I love you too,” I said and hugged him tight.

“I am going to marry you!”

“Well, you’re a little young for me, but you will always have my heart, I promise.”

And in the dark of the moon, the coyote turned his sharp nose and trotted across the street in front of me.

Trickster.

Clown.

Totem.

Creative energy.

Magic.

Sex.

Rutting.

Moon and star.

Time magic.

I felt kissed with love and my heart grew bigger and I thanked God for my life and all the things I get to see and feel and do and be.

Even anxious.

Even scared.

Even uncertain and uncomfortable.

Because that too, is where the growth is.

And the love.

I must have them both to grown.

Sprinkle a little coyote mysticism on it.

Bake it in the oven.

And I will shall have it with tea and toast.

Or apples.

Yes.

Apples.

Belle pomme de Boskop.

S’il vous plait.


%d bloggers like this: