“Make love
to me . . . “
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
“Ba ba ba ba
boom. Take me in your lovin’ arms and never let me go. Whisper to me softly
while the moon is low.”
I woke in
the night with the inimitable voice of Jo Stafford as she swayed in her chiffon
dress, singing at the mike, complete with the “Ba ba ba ba booms”, the band
members behind her, all in handsome suits, well, handsome for that nugget in
time.
“Hold me
close and tell me what I wanna know; Say it to me gently, let the sweet talk
flow.”
Remember
when all the band members wore suits? I remember, perhaps a memory loop from
“The Ed Sullivan Show”? I could hear individual trumpets, the drummer whishing
brushes against the cymbals, could hear the entire music in my mind. Don’t forget
the “Ba ba ba ba booms.”
“Come a
little closer, make love to me.”
And I lay in
there in bed, in the dark night, feeling totally and completely loved,
listening to the rain patter on the roof, on the palm tree outside my window,
smelling the wet mist.
This morning
my daily Rumi poem, to paraphrase loosely, said, “The sky poured out love and
the earth opened to receive it.” Amen, I thought, amen.
Yesterday
Leo mowed my lawn and trimmed the edges. After letting my backyard orchard go
brown over the dry, dusty winter and searing hot spring, a couple rainfalls and
it looks like a park. Tomorrow, after another forty-eight hours of rain, the
same lawn will look like a shaggy dog.
The gray-brown
foliage on the mountains looming just across the highway, seemingly overnight
mirror a vista of the hills of Ireland. Some of my plants have burst into
flower like songs in the night. Some are waterlogged, blooms drooping to the
ground.
Memories are
strange. Now that I’m older with time on my hands, the time in my mind dredges
up memories long forgotten. What I find strange, is that I have a clearer view of
events in my life now than I had back when a lot of the memories were freshly implanted.
I think I’m
fortunate that some of my memories did not transform into cast iron monuments
that then ruled my life. I had good teachers along the way.
People tell
me things. One of my early customers had me transfixed by her tragic story of
how her husband abused and left her. I couldn’t imagine how she could begin to
want me here with her, contemplating a job. Innocently, I asked her when this
happened; her story was so fresh. I couldn’t understand how she could function.
“It was twenty-three years ago next month,” she replied through clenched teeth.
“Oh.” Oh was
all I could respond. That poor woman had lost twenty-three years of her life.
She chose to stay in that moment. Realization hit me like a hammer. I never
wanted to do what she did, to plant myself immovable in a past pain. I had not
done so but it was still a good lesson to hang onto. I made my excuses and
left.
I suppose
some people don’t have ugly memories. I have plenty. And the uglies visit from
time to time. Yes, I did that. I’ve sabotaged myself. I’ve made choices I knew
would end in disaster to myself. Yes, that happened. Fortunately, today I can
see details that I chose to ignore at the time. Those outer details make a
difference.
As the more
clear and complete picture emerges, I can see how to change my perspective. Painful
memories aren’t as hurtful. The bad wasn’t all bad. Pieces of denial float
away. The good wasn’t all good. “Ba ba ba ba boom.”
A lot, if
not most, of my most cringe-worthy memories were made while looking for love
(in all the wrong places). Like there was the time, ooh, naw, let’s leave that story
on the shelf in storage for now.
Ironic that
I live in semi-isolation, alone, among people, with whom I have little in
common, and frequently have these strange experiences of feeling utterly and
completely loved.
“Ba ba ba ba
boom.”
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 17,
2021
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