Pick up Styx
One two buckle my shoe
Three four open the door
Five six pick up sticks
Last night, when Tin had demanded yet one more reading of Bad Kitty, we switched back to the Family Book that I had made for him a while back that describes his coming to the world and to us in the form of a fairy tale – the thousand miles, to be exact, that we had to bridge to be together as a family. But I found both Tatjana and I racing through it, anxious to finish the movie we had started yesterday, The Secret of Kells and go to sleep. This morning, I found myself racing through my meditation. Where am I rushing to? I asked myself
Yesterday, walking through the park the mayor asked if I knew a woman who used to live here in the neighborhood? No, I don’t recall her name. She also adopted a child, now eleven. Her husband dropped dead yesterday. 47 years old. He asked me to send her positive vibrations. I came home and the candle I light by my Yemaja statue for my mom every morning, Yemaja who is the ocean, the essence of motherhood, and a protector of all children, I now dedicated to this until now stranger and child, now fatherless, husbandless. Did he rush through his child’s bedtime story the night before? Did he rush to kiss his wife as he went off to work?
Seven eight ain’t life great?
Nine ten do it again?