What I Do

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.