A finger of fresh ginger root (diced or sliced whichever shape you prefer at the bottom of your cup)
1 tsp. of raw honey (optional)
1 tblsp. apple cider vinegar (unfiltered and unpasteurized)
1 tblsp. freshly squeezed lemon juice
Put the kettle on. Take out your favorite tea cup or mug (mine is humugnous) and put all the ingredients in, ginger first. When the water comes to a boil, pour it into the cup. Let steep for a minute or two. Enjoy the new day that you are about to embark on.
When my body is in motion, thoughts play a crude game of hide and seek where I'm "it". I try to tag at least one of them before they duck into the dark convolutions of cortex never to be heard from again. But, if I'm at the top of my game I catch one, if I am lucky I tag and bag two.
Today I am holding firm to a thought that many who read me may be inhibited by. But, nevertheless, I will dare and share. What would it be like to die for a day? To step out of my mortal coil and toil; pen to page - to be and not to be.
I wonder about dying - not nightmarishly or morbidly rather curiously and inquisitively. Is death an Ithaca of sorts, where when we reach its shores we discover that our journey outweighed what lies beyond the pale? Do we die a number of deaths in the course of a lifetime? Would layers of these autumn leaves and poetries come to mind only to vanish through the chinks of time?
Would I be privy to the possibilities of what could be, and disregard the impossibilities of what is?
What if I could step out my skin and observe the architecture that houses my within. Would I recognize a Me? Is their reflection without perception? Am I the Me that I see? Is the little girl who I lived in once still within reach? Does she reside beside other past tides; the teenage girl, the 20 year old, the mother, the wife, the ex, the who I became and who I am to become?
Are my thoughts a chemical reaction? Are my memories a contraction or redaction of truth?
As I look do I like what I see? Words from a past page come back to me:
A Wrinkle in Time
No longer does she clad herself
In days of faded dye,
Patterned fabrics of yesterdays
Unravel threaded whys
Teen embroidered dawns
Intricately woven into dusks
Garments of adolescence hang
In closets of nascent lust
Seams of naked truths remain
As wordless as a sigh
Conforming thoughts crochet themselves
Into acrylated lies
Calicoed cries of consequence
Stack questions on a shelf
Weaves wires of a vintage self