Wild(fire)

i know what she’s thinking. one, because she tells me, but even more, because i was once her looking at the world, hypothetically. 

to her, and all the other calm, collected, enlightened people who cross our path, it’s a wonder why i’m sitting so calm and casual, sipping a margarita, watching my daughters reek havoc on this city. They all look in judgement. I used to care, now i’m just too tired, too worn, too connected to the promise of cycles and seasons… their time will come. judgment never escapes full circle understanding. It’s okay. i feel rooted, enough. for now.  And I used to do it too. it feels good to have hypothetical children. it’s necessary and novel, a part of growing up, defending, redefining, before finally throwing it all in flames. Children, they do that. my life is a wildfire. I’m only glad it’s wild. The fire scares me, it always has. 

I just never knew it would be this wild. I’m sure i bring a lot of it on myself. I like to say yes, I like to invite everything real and raw, which means I invite epic beauty, and intangible, uncharted chaos. I wonder, how will they, (now the center of my story,) remember me? Half naked, and at best impossibly grey, obnoxiously non committal, painfully human, and fun? I mean, come on, I am a lot of fun. But they run circles around me before I ever wake up (literally.) I just. can’t. keep. up. And now it finally hits me…maybe i’m not supposed to.

I’m watching smoothie pour outside the bath, into the baseboards, the nooks and crannies that i will be far too tired to ever clean. Why did i ever think it was a good idea to give them chunky peanut butter smoothies (for dinner) in the bath? For someone who can hardly bare multi tasking, i find myself here, smoothie filled base boards, milky waters, saturated bath mats, and already unclean children, bathed in peanut butter diluted soap. They are happy (for now) so I just keep writing. I had to write, i felt myself disappearing between strangers glares of disapproval, and my suffocating confidence.  But i’ve got this, and i probably wouldn’t doubt half as often if i never went out. But I do. I exit my apartment saying something like, “here is my beautiful mess,” but not everyone considers this beautiful, just the sweet old ladies that earnestly seek me, finding me, telling me. They know it all too well. I am their long, lost, yesterdays, they wish they could do all over again. So, here i am, in the muddy thick of it. I love it, I really do,  just don’t assume my exasperated “ahhhh,” or my silent sipping, tequila solitude is an honest reflection of the worlds that are competing and quarreling, before finally rebirthing under my sun kissed skin.

I still have not cleaned the base boards. I probably won’t. There is so far too much to revel and uncover, it’s got nothing to do with my housekeeping, and everything to do with the my fire burning beneath my chest. “Don’t fear,” I whisper, “It’s wild, it’s fire, it's yours,  you’ve got this.”