Styled in the mode of
What I Do (Ellery Akers)
by Jane Hillson Aiello 9/2016
I awake every day with gratitude. The daily debate of hygiene or coffee. My teeth always win. I squeeze more than the dimeful. I know to brush in circles. I spit, rinse. Then I drink coffee. Black, creamer, sugar, honey, even tea. The iterations of my morning courage have morphed over the years. Black, strong; my steady. Vacillation now is one cup or two.
I move. I walk or hike. I go to the gym. I dance. I sway my hips, ball my hands into tai chi fists, swirl, cha-cha, spread my jazz hands. I emulate Isadora Duncan. I crave the musical madness of Nia. Other days I let the pool take me to the Zen zone of slapping water. I cinch my nose. I struggle with tight, rhythmic breath. I kick and turn. I inhale the resistance. I sputter to catch my breath. I love yoga. Down dog and half frog. I inspire joys, expire fears. I treat my mat as my treasure. I am possessive, cringing if you step on my rectangle. I close my eyes. I tune out the chatter, your chatter. I leave my laundry list at the door. I bow to myself, to my teacher, my higher power, the Universe. I thank my body for the ability to move. I thank my mind attempting stillness.
I meditate. I let exercise wear my body out. I go in the steam room and generously spritzing eucalyptus. I am naked. I lie down, and cover my eyes with the scratchy gym towel. I breathe, breathe. I relish the dark, calming my optic nerve. I seek nothing. I think of me. I think of you. I think of my children, my grandchild. I breathe, breathe. I horizontally pray. I sweat and fidget. I immobilize my body. I let my mind wander then I reel my mind back. I breathe. I breathe.
I fuel. I cook. I cook with enthusiasm. I love eggs; eggs with cabbage, and spinach and kale. I crack and stir them in the pan. I applaud my utilitarianism while eating this breakfast with gusto. I lunch. I lunch alone, hunched over work or Words with Friends. I lunch with a fork in one hand and a book in the other. I make salad, chopping beautiful organic tomatoes from Lily’s garden. I splash vinegar on the greens, forgetting oil. I eat lunch too quickly. I skip dinner. I eat too much at dinner. I go out to dinner. Dinner bores me. I like to eat in daylight, not candlelight.
I work. I work not for money, or food or children. I work because my brain is stuffed with thoughts and ideas, and prose. I am compelled to share, to explore and allow the inner cogs of my encephalon to express, lest I explode. I work for pleasure. I work on projects, projections. I work to perfection. I work in flawed circumstances. Fearlessly. Wearing a dress, I put paperwork in order. I do business, real business. I am fluff. I get people to listen to me. I wonder if they have BS meters. I doubt I am that good. I take pleasure in favorable outcomes that bolster my bluff. I recite the alphabet of success. I did it. I made a client happy. I am happy. I eat another day.
I drive. I avoid rush hour. I pack drinks and snacks and eat nuts and fruit in the car. I take longer back roads. I don’t cut you off. I refrain from cursing other drivers. I inhale deeply at traffic lights. I exhale frustration. I fret alongside the carbon monoxide.
I mother. I am a mother. I am a J’Ma. Looking at my son, I step back. Remembering I had my turn. I cuddle and snap pictures, trying to freeze moments, create memories. These are for others, when I am dust. I feel my daughter’s struggles. I have done my job. I help if I am asked. I bite my tongue and do not spit advice. I know we are all grown-ups. I am sometimes the most vibrant, youthful among us. I am not acquainted with addiction, nor intimate with depression. I detach. I detach with love. I close my heart, open my ears. I hurt. I cry. I do not let them see me. I am strong. I am the mother. I question their sanity, mistrust my serenity. I tighten up. I distance their journey from my reality. I smile. I worry. I agonize. I sleep through the night.
I go to meetings. I practice 12 steps. I share intimate details of my life in church basements. I stare at depictions of Christ. I tell strangers about feelings. I reveal the holes peppering my soul. I am closer to them than my wusband. I do not break bread with them. I do not holiday with them. I do not kvell over photos with them. They know me, without my protective shell of swagger and deception. I am real. I am raw.
I sleep. I revel in my bed. I read in bed. I love dim light, no optical assistance. I read fiction. I read non-fiction. I read poetry. I am hit with a bolt. I bolt upright. I write. I know in the morning my own hand will be illegible. I laugh. I have to get it out. I have to put my light out. I am exhausted. I am extinguished.
