The box I packed up on Sunday is still here, un-taped, next to my desk.
I wonder about this, and as I do, I feel my body resist, throat muscles tightening, lips pursing.
This task is half-done/half-undone. And I am seated here beside a brown beast of a moving box, 2 1/2 feet tall with scrawled marker on the side “Picture Frames” in a new neighbor’s handwriting, one whom I have yet to meet. Over the weekend, I considered painting the box with leftover Chalk Paint, this blue color, but that seemed childish. I’ve found sometimes the best treasures come in the most unlikely and ordinary packages. Like a geode (as a girl, I would hammer any rock I could find in the backyard and hope for purple crystals)
This was not the reflection I imagined writing today.
Instead, my intention was to honor reader/friend Anne B. Last week, she offered me 2 simple words “Still Here” in response to the post on Deflection. Such a quiet kindness. Bearing witness to another’s journey.
Anne B.’s presence in my life, her modelling of what it looks like to be an artist in the world, this woman playwright whom I chanced to meet in small Midwest community theater, 20+ years ago, when we were cast together in a children’s theater production (She played Fairy Godmother to my Cinderella.)
I, too, am Still Here. Still opening. Still listening.
As are you, dear Reader. As are you.
(But so is “The Mighty-yet-to-be-taped-box-that-does-not-contain-Picture-Frames-and-needs-to be-put-in-the-closet-soon-dammit”)