Tumbleword

Here is the littlest night visitor to my back deck.  Heard him last night in the recycling bin, tearing at a carton of organic milk.  The other day, someone on the street told me a sad story about seeing a possum someone had deliberately, he said, almost crying, run over.  How do you know the possum wasn't playing possum, I asked, trying to make him smile.  He just looked in my eyes, "People can be so cruel," he said.

I did no more joking.  Maybe this little possum is his or her child.  I would have fed it some organic milk, or anything, but the way things are, animals run from us--even when they come to our porches in need.  I threw some dog gravel bits on the deck but that only frightened him away. Yes! I'm very scary, I yelled out after him, wait till Halloween.

I will give you a poem for all that trouble.

This is from Louise Gluck's book The Wild Iris.  Here, the flower is talking to us... if you will allow that to be possible, read on.

The Red Poppy

The great thing
is not having
a mind.  Feelings:
oh, i have those; they
govern me.  I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart?  Oh, my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human?  Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again?  Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do.  I speak
because I am shattered.


Last night, my neighbor came over with a plate of homemade ribs.  Thank you J!  This guy has a sauce that is so intelligent in layers of seasoning, it is brilliant.  I love to cook and use levels of flavor when I spice, and this rib sauce acts on your mouth in layer after layer of different tingling tastes.  It is something that once you try, like the forbidden apple, there is no going back.  You crave after that. Crave! 

In Mansuetude, here is my Tumbleword: give of your gifts to those around you. We are all surrounded by someone playing possum with their lives, with their gifts, pretending to be dead.  Ask yourselves, what does the possum wandering on your porch both day and night, even if in your dreams, what does he or she need?  The world will be fed by someone, any hand offering somehow gets fed in return, with bounty.  Open your hands, offer what is yours to give.  That is how we know what is ours, isn't it?