The rainbow disco is rocking in the sunshine. The prism spins, rainbows fly, the children sing and jump. We watch the icicles melt from the roof, Frosty finally a lumpy triangle on the terrace. Sunshine is my salvation. For twenty eight years I took her for granted. Then I encountered my first January in the valley. The inversion thick, icy windshields, hats an actual necessity, long hours on the sofa reading while my man met his glee on the ski hill. When she graces us, it's a true and simple celebration.
I'm finding myself in a similar situation lately. Except that Eliana and her dad go up to ski, leaving Soli and I at home for some Saturday silliness. And while Soli was kinda driving us all a little bonky at the end of the holiday vacation, being back in school has seemed to stimulated him back into his old self. And his old self is a little creative maniac. A snuggly dreamboat. A Wiggles singing, guitar slinging fool. Who can find endless uses for laundry baskets and empty cardboard boxes. Ideally while wearing basketball shorts.
Soli's starting point seems to always revolve around The Wiggles. He's Murry and I'm Anthony. And anything we do is fun as long as I say, "How does that sound, Murry?" He eagerly replies, "Sounds great, Anthony!" And we're off. These games can take many directions. At any point we can spontaneously break out into song. Sol has learned how to move his guitar, his banjo, his yukelele, just like a rock and roll king. His rhythm and moves have always impressed me. They just keep getting better.
The best part about the sunshine is we can take our act on the road. While walking around downtown on a freezing cold, gray, socked in day sounds awful, walking around in the sunshine, even if it's still cold, actually is satisfying. Yesterday Mury and Anthony went to Bernice's for a bowl of soup and a piece of poppyseed poundcake. We then meandered, hand in hand, into Upcycled where we talked about what all the goods used to be. Murry, what do you think this bracelet used to be? Um, I don't know, Anthony. It used to be the tops from a tin can. Oh, yeah Anthony! We walked into Betty's where Murry was able to practice his tunes on the plastic piano that waits for kiddos like him while their mamas quickly peruse the dresses and coats, take a breath of their former lives before the banging gets too loud and the mamas feel self-conscious and quickly smile and move on. We mailed Nana her mail and Murry marveled at the enormous bags of packing popcorn. Which made him think of actual popcorn so we decided to go into Ace where he could score a bag and look at the tractors. He's so easily satisfied when all the attention is on him. Aren't we all.
And even when sister gets home, hair matted from the helmet, body and spirit tuckered, they are so dang happy to see each other after some good time apart. They morph into some other weird game, Baby/Big Brother or performance. Eliana is really into performances. She dances and Soli plays one of his instruments. They always involve flying leaps and floor work, costumes and scarves, demand their parents attention. And we are more than happy to oblige, our little living transformed into a theatre of the absurd, littered with loot, exhausted smiles exchanged.
My mom sent me a box of poems and papers, letters and memories she unearthed from her stash. I was hesitant at first to go there. I was having such a lovely, mellow, simple time with my family over the break. I didn't feel in the head space to read what I wrote a lifetime ago.
But the other night after I finished the book, I dug out the box. I wanted to find a particular poem I'd written at twenty, a poem about a lecherous teacher, a theme unearthed in Susanna's book. I performed the poem in my senior acting recital, loud and raw, a single chair in the center of the black box, spotlight on me. I felt so proud as I re-read it in the quiet darkness, my children asleep on the other side of the wall. I began to dig through the others. Heavy duty themes fell from the lines. My honesty astounded me. I was absolutely unafraid. I wrote it all down. Like everything. And then made twenty copies for the other students in my class to workshop, to tear apart, to circle images they liked, put big question marks around things that they didn't get, write 'trite' or 'awesome' or 'overused' whenever they felt moved. My poetry professor was big on exclamation points. I loved it when one of my wild lines would earn one of his signature exclamation marks in the margin.
Jeff came home and found me in bed, poems scattered around my tired frame. Dude, look at this one! Can you believe I let anyone read this shit? He smiled. He didn't know me then, but knows me well enough to know that I probably did. We read through a few more. The one where I fantasize about my hearing aid wires strangling my loser boyfriend. The one when I was lost up Angeles Crest. The one about genital mutilation in Africa. The one about my favorite teacher who died of AIDS. I was all over the map. All over the map that is me. The map that I'm slowly spreading before me, folding and unfolding, folding and unfolding again. It gathers wrinkles and tears, each journey a mark on a blue line, a mark of understanding and unearthing the depths, processing the now. The snowy trail in the sunshine, another solo journey to the highest point, then back down again.
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