Wild Hare
The strange and familiar tones of my cellular phone seep through my ears and into my brain. I am no longer asleep. I wasn't really asleep before, but I wasn't really awake either. I reach out and pick up the black plastic object on my nightstand. It is emitting not only that irritatingly catchy little melody that is always stuck in my head, but also light- flashing, multicolored, first red, then blue, purple, back to red. I open it up, press the little green "TALK" button and put it to my ear. "Mornin'" I hear myself say. And then that voice is there, that voice which I love like none other. I am happy to be awake.
I am downstairs in the kitchen. Another familiar sound floods my ears; its character is sharply juxtaposed to that of the tonal melody that began my morning, but certain parts of it remind me of the voice. It is natural, calm, soothing, steady, even, alive. It is on the roof, against the windows, everywhere around. It envelops me and I feel safe. I look outside the windows and even though my ears have already determined it, confirm that yes, it is raining.
I decide to bake bread. There is a zucchini in the refrigerator, emerald green, rotund and beautiful, purchased from the Farmer's Market on Saturday morning. I wash it, the cool water refreshing as it glides over the squash and across the back of my hands, and then I am working, grating the zucchini into a glass bowl on the counter. I decide to chop some apples, add a banana, toast walnuts to fold into the batter that slowly comes to life. Now I laugh. It does not "come to life." Ah, the never ending melodrama of me. But, I protest, even as I laugh at myself, it does come into existence; it is created. I do not follow recipes; I cook by feel, on a whim. There is this very simple, but very real satisfaction in it...starting with this, with that, with what you have and working, peeling, chopping, toasting, stirring, sprinkling- tasting!- evaluating, considering, sprinkling and stirring again and on and on until you have, lo and behold, created something, created sustenance nonetheless!, and it is good.
It occurs to me that the telltale sound has ceased and I realize rain is no longer falling. The bread is baking and I am supposed to leave home in forty minutes to get my hair cut, but there is time. I pull on my favorite shorts, sports bra, and twist my hair off of my face and into a braid. And then I am moving. My socks and shoes are at home, indoors, and my feet and I have left them; my feet and I are here, gloriously outdoors. I am running. The earth is soft and forgiving, but strong and vital too, full of the life that the rain will eventually enable us to see. There is a hill, muddy and steep, and without the traction Asics has worked hard to deliver in the form of my Kayanos, I am slipping. It is frightening and wonderful. I bound downhill, picking up speed, my arms are out for balance and my eyes dart ahead, methodically scanning to find sticks and stones in advance of my feet. I am flying, free, and it occurs to me that in this moment, I hardly feel human. I can only say that I am indescribably aware that I am alive. Then I am at the bottom. I have made it, and the trail goes on, reestablishing itself as a dignified means of getting from one place to another, and I go on too.
My mom and I are on the way to the salon. Since I have been home, everyone has been telling me I need my hair cut. Everyone except one, and I like that. I think about how it feels to have someone love the things about you that you love about yourself. Maybe that is why there is this idea about loving yourself before you can be in love, because it is when you have found these magical things in yourself and then someone else sees the same magic that there is this secret, this most beautiful secret for two people to share. You see the magic in yourself, and you see it in someone else and together, you see it in each other, and in sharing it, it becomes real.
[I remember The Velveteen Rabbit, and this whole bit about "Love makes you real." and I am laughing. I don't remember the rest of the story so well, except that the boy has Scarlet Fever, a disease I stole for the protagonist in a short story I wrote for the Young Author's contest in fourth grade. I don't think it had very much to do with what I'm trying to describe at all. But maybe I'm wrong and I totally missed it...]
I tell Stephanie not to cut my hair much. A little trim will do. But the color: She will put in some blonde highlights, the usual. "And then here," I am showing her, lifting up the locks on top, closest to my face to show her a thick section just behind my left ear. "Blue," I tell her. She laughs and tells me blue is tough, and usually ends up looking grey-brown after a wash or two. "Purple? " I try. Same story. She suggests red or copper and goes to get swatches to show me. Copper is orangey and red is not 'enough.' But there is copper-red and it is intense and beautiful and firy looking and I like it.
An hour later, I am in the car with my dad. I show him my copper-red streak and he laughs. My mom thinks it looks like ketchup. My dad is asking me why I wanted this strange little streak hiding behind my otherwise classically golden tresses. "Does it mean something to you? Is it a symbol?" he asks. I laugh and tell him no, that I just wanted to do it, but a few minutes later, I am telling my mom, "It's my wild hare..." and I know that I am telling her the truth.
I am thinking about the weekend, and I am thinking about life and how I'm learning it, and wild hares and who I am. I am laughing a real, inside the soul kind of laugh, and I feel like me, and like life is good.
I think of this day and how sweet it has felt to me. I think of who I am, and of learning to balance what is wild and free with what is controlled and reasoned. I think of the way some people have the ability to help us find parts of ourselves that have gone missing. I look in the mirror, and there, peeking out, where you might not even notice it at first if you didn't know where to look, is my wild hare. It is boldness and courage and passion and strength. It is me, it is mine, it is real. I love it, and I am grateful for having had help in finding it. : )
I am downstairs in the kitchen. Another familiar sound floods my ears; its character is sharply juxtaposed to that of the tonal melody that began my morning, but certain parts of it remind me of the voice. It is natural, calm, soothing, steady, even, alive. It is on the roof, against the windows, everywhere around. It envelops me and I feel safe. I look outside the windows and even though my ears have already determined it, confirm that yes, it is raining.
I decide to bake bread. There is a zucchini in the refrigerator, emerald green, rotund and beautiful, purchased from the Farmer's Market on Saturday morning. I wash it, the cool water refreshing as it glides over the squash and across the back of my hands, and then I am working, grating the zucchini into a glass bowl on the counter. I decide to chop some apples, add a banana, toast walnuts to fold into the batter that slowly comes to life. Now I laugh. It does not "come to life." Ah, the never ending melodrama of me. But, I protest, even as I laugh at myself, it does come into existence; it is created. I do not follow recipes; I cook by feel, on a whim. There is this very simple, but very real satisfaction in it...starting with this, with that, with what you have and working, peeling, chopping, toasting, stirring, sprinkling- tasting!- evaluating, considering, sprinkling and stirring again and on and on until you have, lo and behold, created something, created sustenance nonetheless!, and it is good.
It occurs to me that the telltale sound has ceased and I realize rain is no longer falling. The bread is baking and I am supposed to leave home in forty minutes to get my hair cut, but there is time. I pull on my favorite shorts, sports bra, and twist my hair off of my face and into a braid. And then I am moving. My socks and shoes are at home, indoors, and my feet and I have left them; my feet and I are here, gloriously outdoors. I am running. The earth is soft and forgiving, but strong and vital too, full of the life that the rain will eventually enable us to see. There is a hill, muddy and steep, and without the traction Asics has worked hard to deliver in the form of my Kayanos, I am slipping. It is frightening and wonderful. I bound downhill, picking up speed, my arms are out for balance and my eyes dart ahead, methodically scanning to find sticks and stones in advance of my feet. I am flying, free, and it occurs to me that in this moment, I hardly feel human. I can only say that I am indescribably aware that I am alive. Then I am at the bottom. I have made it, and the trail goes on, reestablishing itself as a dignified means of getting from one place to another, and I go on too.
My mom and I are on the way to the salon. Since I have been home, everyone has been telling me I need my hair cut. Everyone except one, and I like that. I think about how it feels to have someone love the things about you that you love about yourself. Maybe that is why there is this idea about loving yourself before you can be in love, because it is when you have found these magical things in yourself and then someone else sees the same magic that there is this secret, this most beautiful secret for two people to share. You see the magic in yourself, and you see it in someone else and together, you see it in each other, and in sharing it, it becomes real.
[I remember The Velveteen Rabbit, and this whole bit about "Love makes you real." and I am laughing. I don't remember the rest of the story so well, except that the boy has Scarlet Fever, a disease I stole for the protagonist in a short story I wrote for the Young Author's contest in fourth grade. I don't think it had very much to do with what I'm trying to describe at all. But maybe I'm wrong and I totally missed it...]
I tell Stephanie not to cut my hair much. A little trim will do. But the color: She will put in some blonde highlights, the usual. "And then here," I am showing her, lifting up the locks on top, closest to my face to show her a thick section just behind my left ear. "Blue," I tell her. She laughs and tells me blue is tough, and usually ends up looking grey-brown after a wash or two. "Purple? " I try. Same story. She suggests red or copper and goes to get swatches to show me. Copper is orangey and red is not 'enough.' But there is copper-red and it is intense and beautiful and firy looking and I like it.
An hour later, I am in the car with my dad. I show him my copper-red streak and he laughs. My mom thinks it looks like ketchup. My dad is asking me why I wanted this strange little streak hiding behind my otherwise classically golden tresses. "Does it mean something to you? Is it a symbol?" he asks. I laugh and tell him no, that I just wanted to do it, but a few minutes later, I am telling my mom, "It's my wild hare..." and I know that I am telling her the truth.
I am thinking about the weekend, and I am thinking about life and how I'm learning it, and wild hares and who I am. I am laughing a real, inside the soul kind of laugh, and I feel like me, and like life is good.
I think of this day and how sweet it has felt to me. I think of who I am, and of learning to balance what is wild and free with what is controlled and reasoned. I think of the way some people have the ability to help us find parts of ourselves that have gone missing. I look in the mirror, and there, peeking out, where you might not even notice it at first if you didn't know where to look, is my wild hare. It is boldness and courage and passion and strength. It is me, it is mine, it is real. I love it, and I am grateful for having had help in finding it. : )
posted by bella.calamitas at 1:31 PM
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