Thursday, June 22, 2006

Giant Cat

Right now something is purring in my house like a giant cat—I believe it is the fan upstairs. I believe it is the fan vibrating against the hardwood floor. Yet I want to say it is a cat, something giant curled up against the wall, holding us close. When you jump there is so little to fear. A few years ago I use to fear open windows, sleeping alone in this house with the girls. Listen to me sleep, I would say on the phone to California, listen and be someone who hears me.

I don’t know if I need that as much anymore. I use to claim I had a hunger to be read; somehow it scares me now that in this journey to be whole I may have lost that. I don’t care if you read me. I don’t need you to listen. In fact, listening in some cases tends to incur judgment and the demons in my head do a damn fine job already, thank you very much.

Truth: I sat by the lake last night and read a poem that made my heart hurt. I wanted to write. I wanted to write so much, I would have traded it for a cup of air; a day of my life but there is not time right now. There are two girls and two houses and a non profit art program and so much change it feels impossible to measure.

And another truth: I don’t need you to listen. I hunger not for you to understand but for the simple action of moving my hand across the page. Because for the first time in my life there is something inside me deeper than being understood and maybe it began as this tiny seed, of saying all my worst fears out loud, maybe it began by not caring a little more each day or by becoming the one person no one ever expected me to be.

Maybe it began here in this place with the giant cat.