I wish to never forget…
That the most fun of the seven deadly sins is lust and that my favorite number is nine.
A summer night in a hot cottage on a dancing lake, gazing at the fireflies that snuck inside to perform a light show just for me. I was nine and my grandparents had yet to realize what I already knew, they were old and time was slipping and memory might too.
Chakra is from a Sanskrit word that means wheel. Though the seven of them live in line from your head to your toe, the crown to the root, they represent the circle of life, coming full circle, the repetition that happens when we don’t know, don’t know how to help ourselves. The yellow chakra is held in your torso. Chakra number three. Odd. Stored here: Joy, anger, personal power, fun, ambition and sensitivity. When it’s blocked: Anger, martyrdom, insecurity, feeling adrift, unfocused, ulcers and bad shits. Warrior pose is the yoga asana best for healing a power-sucked solar plexus. Open arms, open heart. Not unlike the pose of on a crucifix. Impossible to bring down. A fighter for self, for selflessness, not of self.
My final lover’s face before our first kiss.
The fork in the road on Whetstone River Road. North. Take a right. Shortly before the first house on the left sits a tree, on the right, where it’s rumored an Indian chief is buried. The giant morphing trunk a memorial to human sacrifice. Not unlike a crucifix. It’s too big to completely hug but its branches watch over every car and bee that hums beneath it. When the sky has turned velvet and the fireflies mate you can hear the same sounds that once guided generations of a people.
The arrowheads my daddy would bring home, found in his cornfields, and the way they felt pressed beneath my small fingertips, my print now fused with the others that had touched it before. Each different from any other ever made. Buried treasure. A reminder that death is necessary for life.
A wish is a prayer is a meditation is a spell by another name.