Skip to main content

Just Crazed


There’s nothing about this lemon-colored umbrella in my drink that is necessary.

It is frivolity and glamour under the faint Seattle sun.

And while I know all too well the limits of its luster,

it charms me still.


And isn’t that the point of every sweet and senseless surprise?

Isn’t that behind every wink,

every kiss mistaken,

every nickname ever given?

Each gestures beyond mere utility.


And yet, if a bee can land upon it,

believing my little umbrella a font of nectar-

a bee so evolutionarily intelligent, so mathematically inclined-

then I too can resist bitterness

for the ways in which I have been undone

by seduction.

I can admit my weakness for pyrite, and

still smile for the way it makes me stumble

and shimmer,

often interchangeably.


And I give thanks for being as crazed as a bumble bee.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The First Negotiation

The morning light licks the corners of my face, repeatedly, until I consent to opening my eyes. She makes her gradual way across the bed, nudging her most promising sign of hope unto the tossled ivory. The sun is far more gentle than any alarm clock I’ve ever fought, though no less insistent. In such radiant self-giving, how many times can I roll over? So we strike a compromise: I will flip my pillow and “rest” my head, but promise to keep my eyes a flutter, little windows parted slightly for the streams of her still light. Sometimes I up the bargain, telling her that there is really no better way to receive her glory, no greater praise of her warmth, than to surrender consciousness upon her lap, just a little. She will often reply by shedding new light upon the floor, warming a most suggestive path out into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. Are you sure you don’t want to try freezing time again? I ask. You, me and the sheets, forever curled in our secret morning splendor...
5 comments
Read more

Love Come Barefoot

The two of them sit together, pouring over a shared notepad, thinking intently about whatever question is written there.   He in a fleecy-looking blue sweatshirt, she in an equally roomy grey one.   A dainty pair of glasses slides down the slope of her nose and tuck behind locks of frizzy brown hair.   She is plain and unremarkable, unlike the slew of sorority girls gathering across the street, decked in ultra stylish dresses, synched with flattering waistlines. His elbow leans lightly upon her shoulder, draped in some expression of love and friendship.   In their unassuming comfort with each other, love is flaunted best.   I do not know if what they are gazing upon is a physics equation, or a crossword puzzle, but I do think that the rest of us should notice them, in their quiet ways. I do not doubt that he loves her body or her face or any of her feminine attributes.   They all congeal together to make her the dynamic person she is.   But he does not isolate the parts of her, c...
1 comment
Read more

A Preferrential Option for God As 'She'

The Scandalous Feminine Three weeks ago I wrote a piece for the Catholic blog “God In All Things.” It’s a website devoted to the spiritual practices of St. Ignatius of Loyola, featuring writing on prayer, discernment, imagination, and a basic willingness to see God in, well, all things. The topic of my piece was “Spiritual Déjà vu,” an expression I coined to describe the heightened sense of God’s presence when we encounter deep truths.  The essay was a total of 1,148 words in length, but there was only one word that evoked controversy: She . It was used only once, in the first sentence: “I used to be quite frustrated that God never spoke directly to me the way She spoke to the Hebrew prophets.” And yet, it provoked a deluge of comments ranging from the dismissive, “ Why is God…”she”? I do not understand that? I’m reluctant to even read past that” to the recommendation that I, “ review the sins of Heresy, Apostasy and Schism.”   Basically the comments section reads...
1 comment
Read more