Washing Dishes With the Radio On

I meditate while I wash the dishes. 

Consider the bruises and scratches on the extremities of my body, a cratered and flimsy field my organs somehow trust.

I take a plate and think about our stories, the life they take on. Narrative makes everything that much deeper, meaningful, and real. Not knowing your story is terrifying. 

Sponge, soap, contact. I'm afraid a lot. I wonder about this. Everything I say and do, I fear, or judge or hold to a strange microscope of importance. Is what we say important because it's the only noise we make? Maybe bang things and break down doors. I clean bang at the dishes.

I'm sorry, thank you, I love you. Slow care and nurture of ourselves and the world takes on a pacing of its own. Skimming the water over a plate to rinse it. My shoulders hunch and I release them. 

Time. Memory. The small pieces we've held captive for measurement for the illusion of congruency.

This story is a soft nerve, touched when the energies are ripping toward the heart for more blood. Lack of sleep and water. Noise levels are intermittent, loud.

The radio fundraiser is on and we're riding with it, even if we could conjure entertainment elsewhere. If you call in, you're entered to win a trip to Australia.

Australia. Biggest island country. Its own continent. Kangaroo lover's paradise.