BLISS
Bliss is
When my daughter calls me and asks me out to the ballet or a baseball game or she stops by my apartment unexpectedly with chocolate ice cream, or with nothing, and says, “Can I hang out with you for a while?”
My son calling just to say “Hey Mommy!” then laughing a deep, goofy, doofus laugh before he hangs up.
Clean sheets on the bed and iris and calla lilies in the vase on the dresser.
Dogs loping across the beach, tongues hanging from the side of their mouths.
Rainbows after rain, finally.
The crack of the bat and the cheer of the crowd on a sunny day at the ballpark, and of course an ice-cold beer in a BEAT LA cup.
Bliss is coming home from the North, rounding the bend through the tunnel and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge and the City in the background, the sun sparkling on the buildings, and just a faint trace of wispy, spun-cotton fog stretching its delicate hand out from the ocean, trying to touch the bridge, yet not quite making it.
Bliss is a baby asleep in your arms, smelling of milk, your milk.
Bliss is a deep red, ceramic bowl filled with plump blueberries.
Bliss is the rosemary bush flowering purple and the hummingbird that pauses in the air, hovering near the feeder on the balcony, its iridescent wings seemingly still with such rapid beating.
Bliss is the surprise letter in the mailbox; the familiar yet almost forgotten voice of an old friend on the message machine.
Bliss might be sitting on your front stoop, or pushing the walk button over and over again at the intersection down the way. Bliss may be pinching the loaves of sour dough in the bread aisle at Safeway, or looking for you at the bus stop.
Bliss may be hiding in your heart, waiting for you to wake up.
When my daughter calls me and asks me out to the ballet or a baseball game or she stops by my apartment unexpectedly with chocolate ice cream, or with nothing, and says, “Can I hang out with you for a while?”
My son calling just to say “Hey Mommy!” then laughing a deep, goofy, doofus laugh before he hangs up.
Clean sheets on the bed and iris and calla lilies in the vase on the dresser.
Dogs loping across the beach, tongues hanging from the side of their mouths.
Rainbows after rain, finally.
The crack of the bat and the cheer of the crowd on a sunny day at the ballpark, and of course an ice-cold beer in a BEAT LA cup.
Bliss is coming home from the North, rounding the bend through the tunnel and seeing the Golden Gate Bridge and the City in the background, the sun sparkling on the buildings, and just a faint trace of wispy, spun-cotton fog stretching its delicate hand out from the ocean, trying to touch the bridge, yet not quite making it.
Bliss is a baby asleep in your arms, smelling of milk, your milk.
Bliss is a deep red, ceramic bowl filled with plump blueberries.
Bliss is the rosemary bush flowering purple and the hummingbird that pauses in the air, hovering near the feeder on the balcony, its iridescent wings seemingly still with such rapid beating.
Bliss is the surprise letter in the mailbox; the familiar yet almost forgotten voice of an old friend on the message machine.
Bliss might be sitting on your front stoop, or pushing the walk button over and over again at the intersection down the way. Bliss may be pinching the loaves of sour dough in the bread aisle at Safeway, or looking for you at the bus stop.
Bliss may be hiding in your heart, waiting for you to wake up.
posted by Bird | 9:55 PM
10 Comments:
Better, more beautiful, more generous. You are bliss to read.
Bliss is reading your comments like this one.
Thanks!
/bark bark bark
what's this? you prefer Freya? you want her to come over? you think a stinkin' furbearing rotty can't appreciate the topic of bliss? well surprise, how pleased i am to read of the flowering lavender after reading you had temporarilly abandoned it. all your blisses are lovely. may i add one?
puppy breath
/wag
hahaha - i forgot about puppy breath. also the smell of puppy pablum. and the sound of puppy grrrrs & grffffs as litter mates tumble about and play.
always happy to have your pawprints,K9, in my piece of the sky.
aw, jack....
alison - your post helped me with this.was the springboard for mine. many thanks.
bliss is the smell of Florida orange blossoms in the spring...
bliss is the smell of her store-bought shampoo in her hair... it's her scent, not theirs...
bliss is reading about things you don't know and may never know, but believing for just a moment that you do...
bliss is remembering things the way they were, and imagining they still are, even though they will never be again...
I could go on, but it'd be way too personal...
since this is such a serious post, I'll save my comment about "pinching the loaves" for another time...
/bark bark bark
boyed! you know that sketch made freya mad! i am in the doghouse now. she re-did it. (howl)
not leaving the studio until sunday!
grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl flap and whoosh on!
/wag
Lovely writing - I've so enjoyed reading some of your blog. I found you through a search on rosemary - and I've put a link to your March blog/poem about rosemary on an entry I'm just about to post. I've been writing about rosemary myself, and your poem moved me a good deal and reflected how I feel about the demise of my poor plant.
hello - thanks for visiting too!
My earlier blog on the rosemary beetle had a link to a RHS site with some info. - theres quite a bit on the web. From what I've read, there are pesticides which will kill the buggers, but pretty nasty ones which (apart from killing all the ladybirds too) mean you can't use the rosemary for cooking. The only alternative seems to be picking them off by hand - which, as you will know, I did last year, thinking I had succeeded - rosemary recovered astonishingly well. Bugs returned this Spring. They sneakily pupate (or something similar) in the soil where you can't see what they are up to.
I hope they don't visit your garden.
Chapter Seventeen is ready for your perusal.
And now you can read Chapter Eighteen is ready too.
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