I recently admitted to my friend Ma that my drug of choice is hope. I'm addicted to it. I crave it in my literature, in movies. It better be in my morning cup of coffee. To me the sparkling lift of possibility is a high like no other. Ah man, let it never cease to wash over me.
But some days - not often -- I run low. Sometimes I'm dry. I wade around in What's-the-Point genuinely, if only briefly, perplexed and lost. I wonder if hope is as detrimental as any addiction.
When I feel dry, I don't scramble to feel better. I just let it flow through; run its course. I suppose it's ok to be weighed down for a little while. I think of the sparrow. It's one of the few Christian-isms I held onto after I escaped the church. His eye is on the sparrow. It supposed to mean that if god can keep his eye on the sparrow than surely he watches me, but I take it more to mean that maybe when god feels dry, he looks to the smallest of things.
Mina ran into the room on Sunday from just getting dressed. Her hair is near her waist now and as she stumbled into the dining room, long strands caught light and bent in mid-air around her, her bangs wisped up. She was laughing because she was losing her balance, pushing too far forward as she ran. I froze that frame and pasted it like a stamp behind my eyes. Last night at dinner, Maya was breaking in a new Real Food Daily waitress. Maya was charming and on. She cracked a corny joke and turned to me with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. This morning, before dawn, I watched my husband stand before a mirror and button a crisp shirt that glowed grey in the darkness. He yanked at the bottom of the shirt and futzed with the cuffs for a long time. When I made the Thanksgiving pies, I cut the shortening into the flour, and everything else fell away. The pastry expanded and filled my entire vision. It was a living universe. Trace flour was smeared on the counter, the dough cupped and cradled. The heels of my hands knead in only clear intention. I push in love. I push in care. I am thankful.
These are sparrows. When I can think not before or beyond them, I feel a high cusping.