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A time defined by honey
I return home from visiting friends and family who I love and who love me. I am sated from conversation and food. Travel has sapped my energy.
For close to 20 years I’ve traveled a lot, for work and pleasure, in the United States and internationally. I travel easily and come home full. Now, for a while, home is the only place to be.
At home it is hotter than 7 suns.
I entertain my cool head.
A tow truck driver verbally displays to me, who sits in the passenger seat of his vehicle, a passion for guns. He mentions his high IQ. Then karma. I say, at the end of our short trip to a tire shop, “It was fun talking with you.”
In a waiting room 2 workers in residences for the old and the infirm talk of low income, comparative shopping for an axle fluid change, and administrators who they like and dislike.
A fat woman with the energy and skin tone of health teases herself about her love of food.
Unwanted immigrants and other citizens wait for rain as the clouds build every afternoon.
I soften like the girl I was, I am, in my mother’s arms.
I am quiet like the sky as the rains get ready to test the strength of rooftops.
Sacred tantric texts reveal what every yogi knows: mind rules the world, mind bends it, mind in its ordinary state is clear, and empty of concoctions, intellectual or fantastical (which can partake of each other). Yogis may read tantric texts. They may be scholars of Buddhism, Taoism, or embodiment. They may theorize and philosophize, they may write books about the history of yoga. None of that matters. Practice does.
People try to hold their world in place, to keep it from changing so that it can stay what it is, which nothing can. The rain does not hold back–a drop over there on the patio, a torrent for miles with bolts of lightning.
I eat Greek yogurt, densely rich like sour cream, a little less tangy, with local honey from a 12-ounce jar. The label reads “Sonoran Desert Honey.” Beneath the words an illustration of saguaros and prickly pears and a tree, ironwood perhaps, conveys the expanse of the land in which I live. I like knowing, from the information to the side of the picture, that Sonoran Desert Honey “is a pure natural blend of mesquite, catclaw, ironwood, saguaro and other springtime honeys.” The reddish gold liquid is the infinitely sexy complement to the thick dairy. The honey is startlingly sweet, even after my eating it days in a row, a most desirable partner for the mildly tart yogurt. (Before buying the Sonoran Desert brand a couple weeks ago, I hadn’t eaten honey for years.)
An attractive man helps me choose a gunpowder green tea, the smokier of 2 choices.
I water the plants until the rain comes.
In New York in March I met a man who’s a delight. I don’t think that I’ve called any man but him a delight. Our romantic interlude at his home in April was delightfully satisfying. I feel no desire or need to spend more time with him. I tell my friends about it all. “I feel like I’ve just heard a novel,” one says, and they and I accept the mysterious goings-on of a happy heart.
I’m listening to a clock and birds.
I’m drinking that smoky tea.
I’m living in a time defined by honey.
- July 7, 2010
- Filed under: Beauty, Body and mind, Men and women, Pleasure
- Comments 1
i love this poetic description, this now inventory. seven suns and honey time.