“Please wait while I connect your call,”
says the voice that cares not one whit if I speak to
the party I wish to speak to.
And why do I have to send my social security number out into the ether before I achieve human-to-human status?
“It will probably take three weeks before you
feel like yourself again.”
I’m sorry but that is way past my deadline.
“That shelf unit is on back order. We should have it in
eight to ten weeks.”
I can sprout wings and learn to fly in seven.
“let go, let go, let go,”
says the sticker on the bumper of the Suburu
impeding my progress.
Why can I never get to my yoga class on time?
~ ~ ~ ~
Knowing, half-way up the stairs, La Conner
I’m sitting on the perfect bench part-way up the hillclimb in La Conner
between 1st St. and 2nd St. It’s May.
A gentleman in Sunday suit and fedora, descending the steps, wants to know,
“Are you going up or going down?”
A fellow in shorts, sweatshirt, and mustard-colored baseball cap comes up from
below, observes out of nowhere,
“Good place to write a poem—half-way up the stairs! You could call it that—‘Half-way
up the Stairs’!”
“I might do that,” I bounce back. “What made you think I was writing a poem?”
A gent in navy blazer, khakis and sunhat recognizes his audience.
“Do you know how many steps it is up to here?”
“No, how many?”
“I think that’s also the answer to life, the universe, and everything,” I offer.
“Oh,” he considers.
“How many more steps to the top, do you think?”
“I’ll let you know,” he predicts.
“ . . . 59 to here!” comes a report from the next landing.
“ . . . 76!” the mad hatter calls down from 2nd St.
“Thank you! Got it!”
Two summer-talking gals, with chihuahua, stop, inquire,
“Are you writing in your journal?”
“I’m writing after a festival of poetry.”
“We were there last night!” one of them enthuses.
The other turns and shows me a beflowered tattoo, new, on her left shoulder —
‘Life is a balance of holding on and letting go.’
“Two weeks ago,” she shares, “I lost an uncle and an aunt, same family. How did I know
two months ago to choose these words?”
Sometimes sitting, open, ready, can be just the right move,
an invitation for a new way, a new way of listening, to come through.
Meant for you, the one who knows to hear.
~ ~ ~ ~
Irene Myers, long-time resident of Seattle, now Edmonds, is a career and life coach by vocation, a fiddler of traditional Swedish music by avocation, and a poet by gravitation. In her writing, published and unpublished, she is intrigued by what is waiting to be named.