Routine Assessment

Once in a while, I have a day, maybe a few days, of dysfunctional funk. Sometimes I think it’s my mind’s clever way of alleviating boredom. The day is inevitably sunny, my children are particularly joyful, my husband–syrupy kind. It matters none that he’s remarked n how beautiful he thought I looked, nor that my dinner was delicious. It matters none that I sat on the floor and played Legos with my children, made a lego woman for chas with boobs, made a rocket with Ford; nor does it matter that I rocked and read and rocked and read and read in bed with happy pillows tossed at my head, midafternoon. It isn’t enough that I was able to watch them paint in the garden, watch them paint their toes, then their feet, their legs, their tummies: a robot here, a Dalek there, a rainblow of tempera-covered rocks beneath a wet easel. Smiles, laughter. Running, oh the running: unhinged and impulsive, a Thoroughbred on fresh green grass, and then the wind kicks up, and he bolts, breakneck, a half-eaten mouthful of grass falls at your feet. Or a string cheese wrapper.

On days like this, I pore over yesterday’s photographs. I rediscover beauty to validate my perception. See? I noticed that! I’m not dead. I SAW that!

I noticed a jumble of sea-jewels,

a tangle of mermaid thread,

grass, whispering along our walk

I caught the salty smell of Chas, whirring past me on the trail

and the soothing lull of a calm Pacific afternoon, heavy sand, horizontal bliss

a little vertical tension.

and the coastal summer smells of dried wildflowers, trampled ice plant, baby seal poo and low tide, trailing on the sweet sound of swaying grass and Ford, who had just told me this was his new favorite beach ever.

So why the dull face, woman?

Just throw the ball. I’m here all day! How about you?