The Prolonged Journey into Slumber

Most nights I gently remind my partner that once again he is prolonging my journey towards slumber by engaging me in little last minute nocturnal projects that will only take a second. He smiles. The landscape lights need adjusting. Let's bring in some tools. The fountains need to be turned off. The cats know the routine, and go in the opposite direction when we try in vain to herd them into the kitchen that comprises my so called side of the house. The heavy wooden doors I had shipped from New Mexico create a sound barrier and serve as reminders that such boundaries are doors of freedom for our individuality. Free spirits, they say. I advise troubled couples to let their partners be who they are. Caged, we do not sing. I gaze out the kitchen window wondering when or even if the Painted Buntings will make their colorful appearance this Spring. They are beacons in a world of growing extinctions. I drink my coffee and throw the toy mouse across the room. My stomach gets kneaded with little paws. I hear songbirds greeting the morning as the day dawns. The wind causes a cacophony of sounds among the wind chimes hanging from the oak trees, and dead leaves dance in their spring fall and begin to recycle their nutrients into the soil. I read about the good red road which is our sacred path, how all my relations is a mantra of universal connectedness, and when we notice synchronicity in our lives we are in balance and vitality is with us. When something changes in your dreams it will be reflected in your life vs. when something changes in your life it will be reflected in your dreams. There is always another way of seeing things, of doing things. Other realities. I long for another sweat lodge ceremony. I want to step outside and fly and see the ground below through eagle eyes. I dream of diving into the underworld and communing with animal spirits. I record upcoming workshops, retreats, and classes in my at-a-glance calendar and ponder which ones I'll actually make it to. Edward told me that if I bought a bunch of little chickens the hawks and owls would visit often but that seems too contrived and unnatural to me, but still sparks a bit of interest. My niece writes her annual email and tells me she will be visiting orphaned children in Guatemala and that she is intimidated by yoga. I paraphrase the appropriate sutra and urge her to go against the grain of fear and start where she is. My best friend tells me he wants to paint again this year, but isn't this the 7th year he has expressed such plans that have come to naught? We agree that he will attend a regular Sunday yoga class in his attempt to gain a sense of himself, begin walking a new path to find the elements of life that have become lost to him but he is a no show coming up on three Sundays now. I sigh and feel sad but remember I cannot save, only offer up some little bit of support and whisper a prayer when I remember. I forget so many things. I know I will be scattering the ashes of loved ones and wonder who will scatter mine and remember it doesn't matter one little whit. Still. Stillness. The creaking of a door like clockwork, the barriers of our souls are opened, it's time for breakfast. For errands. For another day.