Running over the Fields

I thought ya’ll needed a little Sophabellie. She’s doing so well these days, and I’m grateful for that. That’s her old wheelchair, but she just got a new, motorized wheelchair. I’m waiting for the ramps to arrive that’ll go at the door, so we really haven’t used it yet. To tell you the truth, I’m scared of it and know that the Two Marias are, as well. I can only speak for myself, but my learning curve is very, very long. Old habits die hard. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Reader, please join in with some cliches. I will keep you posted.

I wake up every morning and run through all the problems inherent in being alive. Then I do a twenty minute or so meditation and drink some coffee and take some Chinese pills and give Sophie some traditional poison and make my bed and get dressed and go to work and teach English and English Language Arts and Creative Writing and come home and look out upon the world and ponder it some more before I take some more Chinese pills and give Sophie some more traditional poison and make some food and do some reading and sleep. Philip Larkin wrote this poem called “Days” and it goes like this: What are days for?/Days are where we live./They come, they wake us/Time and time over./They are to be happy in:/Where can we live but days?/Ah, solving that question/Brings the priest and the doctor/In their long coats/Running over the fields. That last line makes me recall a line I’ve written over and over or, rather, first thought and then written, over and over, which is I want to run to the hills with poetry. I want to run to the hills with poetry rather than think about all the problems inherent in being alive. I want to run to the hills with poetry instead of practicing meditation or practicing gratitude or taking Chinese pills or doling out poison.

Yet, yet, yet.