Marianna's here

You are reading http://livinginthehood.blogspot.com

Copeland's "Appalachian Spring" is playing on my radio.

It starts as a whisper, a gentle embrace. At first, I don't even feel it coming. Then, my heart fills with the most tender, poignant joy. It speaks of death in the midst of rejoicing.

...and goes directly into a dance!

I'm so glad to hear you, Marianna. I can't tell you how much I miss you. Sometimes, I feel so lost, I don't think I can ever untangle myself.

Something about you has always soothed and comforted me. It's as much your intellect, as your womanliness.

It's as much about your fierceness as about your generosity.

Some people are just too big for one lifetime.

So, you've spilled over into mine.

I want SO BADLY to tell you I'm on the radio now!

Marianna, I'm getting paid to write!

It's like: "radio! Of COURSE!" Here I was, scrambling around in publishing, which is controlled by the buyers at wal mart. And the whole time, there was radio, just waiting for me to get my head out my.... and rediscover it.

I feel so stupid! LOL

Marianna, I love you beyond any capacity for expression.

I want to tell you.

I want to tell you my secret crushes, my resentments, my plans. I want to tell you what I found in the garbage last month. I want to tell you about collecting duck eggs. I want to tell you about my latest bottle of Strega.

I miss you so much!

I'm doing it all alone, Marianna. I'm trying to be brave. I'm trying to be strong. But I'm also trying to be loving and compassionate, even though I fall on my ass a lot.

Are you anywhere?

Are you here?

If you're not, what a rip off!

If you're somewhere, I hope it hasn't ruined you. I hope you still get to be fiesty and cantancerous, where ever it is. I hope you're not alone and that who ever's with you appreciates what you are.

I feel you leaving now, as the music draws to a close. The whisper, the gentle embrace. All the exhuberance and dissonence resolving into a lullabye.

I want to tell you, "don't leave me, Marianna! I need you here!"

But I also know that's not how it goes.

The music melts into "Simple Gifts," as I remember why each hour is precious, each moment irreplaceable. Each breath a pulse of the larger respiring.

'Tis a gift, to be simple. 'Tis a gift to be free.

And I remember that it's an illusion: the idea that nothing's simple or free. It all is. Putting up fences, laying down concrete...nothing stops the dandelions.

I still have some of the Mayan blue corn seed you sent. I'm planning to plant it soon.

Nothing dies; it just transforms.

And the music fades to air.

Good bye again, Marianna.

Thanks for stopping by.

Thanks for everything.

But, mostly, thanks for telling me I have a voice.

Walk in Beauty, my sister.

All my love,

Rogi