Four decades

My fourth decade ended at midnight in the dark, appropriately, at the center of a circle of unbroken and unceasing love and kindness. My blood slow dancing and hiccups clumsily erupting in the aftermath of an $8 bottle of prosecco, and my baby, now so grown, hugging my shoulders heavily, her surrogate siblings looking on and asking for the 100th time why we don't just sleep over. Such a terribly* peaceful haze of love and acceptance it nearly suffocated me.

In the waning orange rays of a June sunset, the clouds seemed so full and light and radiant. They swelled as the air cooled, and burst, the vapor transforming into tiny droplets, then larger ones, too heavy to be suspended in the atmosphere above us. Brave tears filling up lower lids, a quivering lip, a tipping point. Clouds engorged, filled to critical mass with ether and wishes and prayers and purgatorial ghosts and red balloons and angels and demons and fairy dust and ultraviolet and magenta and gold. Spasms of lightning and unrestrained growls of thunder woke me like a fevery child, demanding I hear its cries. Then, all at once, the fever broke. Lulled back to slumber by the whisper of breaths nearby. My heart surrounded by a pillow of peace, shielded from the ticking of clocks and the light of the day that marks my 5th decade.

June gloom

It's a cool, rainy June Saturday morning, no plans, no obligations, a dull headache after an active day in the sun, improving with dark chocolate and coffee therapy. Watching doughnut and pastry lovers brave the rain to secure their delicious weekend breakfasts from the corner bakery. A tiny unexpected sigh as I recognize a fellow commuter, a hint of my weekday life, dressed in weekend clothes, clutching his small daughter's hand, in search of sugary treats. A reminder that we nine-to-five slaves roam gleefully free, slaves to our own whims, on the 6th day.

Deep breaths cleanse my lungs and mind, after a week of feeling unloved and anxious, misunderstood and angry. Chemicals meant to deliver me from predators, infiltrating my nervous system with no real threat to conquer, only the perceived teeth and claws of an unseen devil lurking in the black shadows of these summer solstice days. Hungover on hazy mornings, steeped in these murky leftover toxins, overwhelmed with dread, vigilant, fists up, waiting for the first blow, squinting in anticipation.

The lush trees and plants below my balcony happily lapping up raindrops while indifferent runners and bicyclists dash across the glossy pavement. The chilly dampness coats the dust and dander, reawakening and invigorating the new growth, encouraging blossoms to open and thrive, while bees rest quietly, reluctantly, eager to resume their work when the air is dry because cross-pollinating is a never-ceasing chore.

The sky brightens. Caffeine and endorphins fuel the strengthening rhythm of my pendulum legs, dangling from the folding chair arm, vaguely keeping time with my heartbeat. The clouds open, light begins to build, shining brighter on the day that is unfolding and fluttering restlessly. Thoughts of never-ceasing chores begin dancing across my brain, coaxing me upright, fighting the heaviness in my gut which stubbornly anchors me to my perch.