day of the dead

This is when I could use more than half an hour before I have to be at work.  When I'd love to sit and write and process and drink coffee and listen to music.  After an early morning hike towards the sacred tree, darkness everywhere, fog settled like memory, Brandon singing me through memories -  Azure's candy eyes and my Hilary who never cries, sobbing on the highway.  I have a new appreciation of this day, this Day of the Dead, this celebration of those we loved, their legacy.  I was all over the place this morning.  On the stage jumping high with jazz hands, my alto harmony doing her darndest to chant, "Think about your life, Pippin, ah, ah, your life....". I remember how pure that felt.  Like that was the absolute best moment there'd ever be.  Watching you in your white hat and sparkles, waiting for Anna to sing about the angel of the morning that's calling out your name.  I was thinking about that angel of the morning this morning.  That ultimate act.  Today you're my angel of the morning.

Then I was up in your room, watching Hilary spin while you sang, me stretching, smiling, taking in the act that was the two of you.  This was our life then.  Days of music and movement.  Responsibility an afterthought.  Papers to write or books to read and then, later, little people to teach, dances to choreograph, plays to direct.  But it all came back to this.  This creativity.  These long days that morphed into the next.  Loud music and deep thoughts.  We were constantly giving ourselves space to create, to celebrate, to be. 

When did that become a luxury?  Why would that ever become hard?

That's the revolution I'm trying to reconstruct.  That creativity is and must be a daily act.  Personal, professional, from what colors I chose to wear to how much time I give myself to write, to carefully listen to at least one song, to play with my children, to love on my husband, to enjoy every moment of teaching little people, to see the light and color of the sky, to breathe clean air.

 I'm super excited.