Like, no one ever said it would be this hard.  Grief.  Grieving.

Grieving  is one thing.

Living life an entirely other.

Here’s a weird thing.  The neurosis of writing.  Every time I take to the words again after it’s been a while I hear my haters.  My imaginary haters!!  HAA!  How funny is that?? Like they don’t even have faces for god sakes just like, outlines in thick black like a cartoon drawing of gray globs around my heart.  But those drawings sprocket rain and whispers above my head several inches if I am too still for too long once I start to write.  A spot there above my head and one in my heart that both fill with loud dark noise.

September blue so good it’s bad for how it breaks my heart.  Or rubs me funny where old heartbreaks left their permanent mark.  Meaning ok, so.  Besides being different, entirely, grief and living sometimes are the exact same.  September the sparkled blue of a draped naked sky, sky hanging there odd oneness of only itself. Gahhh September at the sea.  It takes my breath.

After the last sabbath this year I will close down Wild Women Wisdom because I’ll be teaching.  I am up to write in the late part of nearing dawn night, because the owl was hooting and it is first time barn owl’s been out my window since before it grew hot and so I sat and felt into the tall trees out the screen, felt into the sky vast night.   On Saturday after dusk in the garden cutting herbs we heard screech owl for the first time too, and immediately I made my friend a rosemary crown and we called that magic down.

Usually owl puts me to sleep but as can happen other times her insights flooded me and the words came on, and tomorrow is Beautiful Friday which is likecreative Red Tent day and so, here I sit.  I would like to write on this platform more and hope to, too, since my other site is almost done.

I was leaving the convention center Tuesday night thinking about Fish Powell and Boardwalk Elvis two very different but equally iconic elders in beach city.  They both died this year, Mayor Powell just last week.  I was at the convention center because that’s where people in recovery go in September.  Next thing I knew I was driving the loop in the tall pines because I needed to cry and the hush sound in the tall pines of insects and muffled stars is the first full stillness I ever knew and it still and always provides me at nighttime that same soothe.  Anyway I needed to cry because I missed Gretchen so dang bad but it took til all the way til I got home sitting in the driveway with the sunroof open in my car, engine turned off, for them to come.  Just the star breath that the pine needles breathe and my tears which hurt but felt like peace.

Because in her absence I just can so, so see who she helped me create.

I cried when Boardwalk Elvis died, too.  Just a bit, because it wrenched.  It wrenched in my heart because I know what it means when icons die.  EXPECT MUCH CHANGE.

boardwalk elvis

Boardwalk Elvis receives the key to the city, a week before his passing in June.  Image I saved from the Coast Dispatch, sorry don’t know which photographer to credit

 

September, beach city where I first fell in love with death. In that way that love and obsession get mixed up as the same.  I wrote about this once.   The first September I ever lived here clean, I couldn’t help it, I had to write about 1995 and eating spaghetti downtown at one of the carny’s I met working on the Pier.

She was a crackhead and that premonition gut chill I had after dinner and the thick throated back of the neck sweat I felt around drugs for the very first time.  The charm of quaking blue, those ten million different shades of sea and sky September days that fool you into looking past the wisp steel grey warnings that slip in side by side.  Winter’s sneaky tells.  It was the first September ice grey day and the first time I ever remember salt turning on me, too.  The distinct brine that always made me a little high.  How that inlet brine on a cold sky when humidity suddenly drops away will turn to sulphur and make you feel a little sick.

September you Fool.

And also, how nice it is.  I mean how bittersweet but real, so joy-ringed at the edges I am to see you.

My goofy heart.   Gratitude’s a funny sage.

Don’t waste a day of this, I so often used to think when I’d get off the phone with her.  I’ll never not hear-feel her voice in that certain special way in my heart. Somehow Gretchen always made me feel so powerfully equipped to live the best out of each day I get to be alive in life.

Anyway, I mean it, September. It’s good to see you.  Sky’s the limit’s a September medicine, too.   It’s damn good to have that back, because it’s true.

 

images this week, where i live

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2 thoughts on “September Love Song for My Elder Who’s Gone.

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