Table Talk

It is the fourth day of wind. 30 mph steady with gusts in the 60's. The air is putrid pink with dust and anything that isn't tied down down gets pushed into the next county. Forced movement is the metaphor. This, as I box and move the the contents of the little visitors center that I manage. When I'm not doing that I'm packing and boxing the my contents of the "house of Tom and I", 15 years of shared memories through objects. I shoehorn things into the 19-foot travel trailer I jokingly call My-Pod, trying hard to keep to those things that speak to my soul. Does a carrot grater do that? Yes, this one does; I bought it last summer when I went back to Iowa for my dad's memorial party. My sister Judy, mom, a friend Marie and I made a trip to the Amana Colonies. That's where I bought the carrot grater; and a square yard stick that hangs in the bathroom closet.

The wind. I do what I can to steady myself. Yesterday Babette gave me the massage she had gifted me for my birthday in October that I'd never collected. I kept getting cold on the table; testament to the roiling going on inside. I don't like to talk during massage; prefer to be silent and see what's pushed to the surface as the flesh is worked. Babette just lets it happen. I rolled over onto my back and she put a warm cloth on my jelly-belly womb. My voice broke silence after several minutes: I wonder what she's feeling these days? Now that the blood has stopped; now that she's no longer nesting month after month. What's going on inside this primo receiver that is lined with more receptors per milli-meter than our eye?

I envisioned dark space. She's a caldron, I said. Babette said she liked that. Goes hand in hand with Creatrix, 'Female Creator,' the name I give to women 50-70. Post-children, pre-Crone, we set out on behalf of ourselves, earth and spirit.

We reach into that 'call-dron' to finish the work of the soul. Learn the art of riding wind.