Thursday, June 11, 2015

It's 4:53 and I am at Barnes and Noble sitting in the rear of the store while Uraeus shops for books. This is one of his favorite stores (if not his favorite), and he has his own money, so we will be here a minute (and a half) even though he said he just wants a journal. I know my son.

I could use some food, some fruit, some sleep, some money and a latte. This is my second moment of the day I took / am taking to breathe. I woke up early this morning...and sat. And said a prayer. Not for anything in particular, just the morning called for purposeful prayer. Of thanksgiving, of listening, of questioning, of asking, of remembering and more thanksgiving. Mostly that. Mostly giving thanks for the blessing and adventure and story and conflict and creation that is my life. My moment to moment. The way it changes and stays the same in comfortable and crooked ways.

I am a poet, a writer, a mother. I get called and pulled into this purposeful prayer often. I am a black woman. I am an American. I am African. I am an artist. I am gumbo. I am monster soup. So I write and pray. And I sit in bookstores and type while my son wanders. I am proud I birthed a reader.

I am in an uncomfortable chair. But the big chair on the second floor is occupied. I wanted to give the lady a look. I didn't. Who do I think I am? --- A dog is barking. In the Starbucks line.

I will wrap this up. This is about nothing. My nothing. Only about my need to busy my fingers. To set free words in my head to make room for new thoughts. New stuff.

Soon come. New stuff soon to come.

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