Hello old friend……..

The clouds were in fine form today.
They were in a mood.
Uncontent to lay casually in the sky, they billowed and pushed.
I liked the fight in them.
They came roaring across the sky, a worthy opponent for that blazing hot afternoon sun.
Within minutes they tempered her.
Blocked her intensity, and mercifully sent rain pouring onto our anxious skin.
It made me feel alive.
Thunderstorms always do.
It made me want to run through the grassy meadow.
Arms flung, legs uncontrolled.
It made me want to sing really loud.
A hymn……maybe some vintage dixie chicks.
It could go either way.
It made me want to write.

First things first.
Collect wet muddy children.
Throw them in car.
Drive.
Unload wet muddy children.
Wash them.
Feed them.
Try to ignore the fighting over the toothpaste.
Give up and try to referee fighting over the toothpaste.
Send them to bed.
Try to remember feeling alive.
Thunderstorm…….singing……trees…..mountains.
Send them to bed.
Throw water on your face.
Take off your ball cap.
Realize you need a whole lot more water.
Take a shower.
Send them to bed.
Tell yourself you need to write.
Remember your broken computer and the reason why you don't anymore.
Find your phone.
Cut yourself on its broken in a million places screen.
Open your email.
See your half composed unsent email.
Remember that you are supposed to be in charge of the family reunion in 2 weeks.
Wish you lived in a tree.
In that forest.
Where the clouds are rushing and alive.
And you were too.
Less than 5 hours ago.
Intellectual death comes fast.

Life moves as quick as a summer storm.
Racing across the sky and changing the landscape.
I have been remiss at capturing it.
Too many excuses.
Social media is a mirage that tricks you into believing you are capturing it.
The small moments.
But the lack of words, real thought, deep and not always pretty.
It builds up and starts to clog the cathartic outlet, the words are forced to climb on top of each other until they are so crowded they make no sense.
And you find yourself holding a pair of matching socks and staring at the pile for a looong time searching for the other match,
The third one.
You know, the one that doesn't exist.
Intellectual death comes fast.

Which is why we must run in the thunderstorm.
Pee in the woods.
Thrust my feet in the creek.
Squeeze my baby's thighs.
And belly.
Talk with my children about the way the trees bend and twist.
Sing their favorite Bear song in the car up the mountain and down.
Dive off the paddle board deep into the clear cold healing waters of Tahoe and flip and twist like a insane mermaid.
And feel it.
All of it.
And for heavens sake find a keyboard and write it.
All of it.
Write it before it rolls by and the landscape changes.
Before your babies thunder past you, full speed into life and hope you're capturing their memories too.
Children are a little lazy and self-centered that way.
Moments.
Like a pile on the floor.
That must be carefully swept up, picked through, organized and recorded.
For they will come back and ask you what you did with them.
Where you put them.
They always do.
And I better know.
Or that's going to be one stinking huge pile of mismatched socks to sort through.
And we all know how good I am at that.
Pen up Mama,
we got some work to do.