Yesterday, on June 27, I was divorced.  Sometime in the afternoon a thoughtful Circuit Court judge granted me relief from ties that bound too long.  That same judge, earlier in the day, resolved a small but important issue in favor of my children, as I had wished.

It has been almost two years since X announced his departure – eons ago – and I am well into a new life.  I have dreaded many days, seen the demonic, been saved over and over by friends, and find myself now on dry land, moving forward under my own power – always with a little help from my friends.

Someone commented this afternoon the legality of divorce seemed anti-climactic.  But the news instantly opened in me empty miles of stretching sage-brush lined road, as is found in the west.

I never knew X – he never knew me – and the masque is now miles behind in the rear view.

I am free.

They say if you gaze into a mirror long enough, you eventually stop recognizing yourself.  I know this to be true.

It works with hands too.

Try this at home – hold out your hand, palm toward you and stretch out your fingers.  Watch for awhile, the palm seems to warm – as if returning your gaze.

It is not you – it is your hand.  You are part of the same being, but it is not you.  It is, however, matter that knows you, thus you and your hand together,  are embodied.

Think of the life that hand has lived, what it has done, how it expressed you, felt for you, kept you occupied.  It carries out thoughts and a million other things.  A marvelous extension, one and the same.

Gaze long enough, you realize fingers are miraculous – tissue, bone, blood – each part of the body a step,  an edge, a movement, into space beyond we who utilize vocal cords to speak,  legs to walk.

And hands to hold.  Wonderful thing about hands,  we can hold our own in a clasp, or a prayer, or  hold the hand of another – one and the same.

You Are Here

The words jumped off the bookmark my youngest son received as a reading incentive from the library.  Depicted in anime style, friendly young adult characters grace the slip of cardstock that bears only those words.

Signs.  Accidental but provocative moments when deep attention stirs.  Brilliance.  Three common words that strung together not only mark the spot, but declare a presence.

You Are Here.

The bleachers in the ballpark are old.  Too far from field #4 and installed so eye height is equal to the ballpark fence – inconvenient.

Faded grey paint peels in postage-stamp size pieces from metal supports.  A nod to  Mr. Neil Young, rust never sleeps.

But rust, like everything else in this ballpark, is part of a rich picture.  Summertime nostalgia.  Rust supports the tradition it eats.

At some other time in  life, I might have thought the deterioration a shame.  But change is as constant as tradition and this rust, altering the structure of the place from the inside out while maintaining its congruency,  is beautiful.

In 1966, My Love, by Petula Clark,  was in the radio Top Ten.  A favorite of my mother, and me too.

I have heard that song rarely over the years.   Back then it seemed a song I could understand.  Now it seems a simple message I can appreciate.

Divorce and delay wear on those seeking freedom – yesterday was no different.  Late in the day, unbidden, My Love picked itself out of dusty memory and played itself over and over in my mind.

Even with 20 years of  cold comfort and small likelihood of ever meeting one of my own kind — I love people and good relationship – between friends, successful couples, and couples trying to make it work.  Men and women and what they do best.  Love felt as deep, warm, soft, and bright – humans are capable of such wonder.

Like an old favorite song, the good things in life come around too infrequently.  But when they do – at least for me – a simple song will suit.

Undivided attention – not possible.

Baseball fields figure prominently this time of year.  Timeless Little League experience.  Blue sky.  Five fields in play.  The town is out tonight.

The concession stand is swinging, children playing in the trees.

In the bleachers, life goes on.  Cell phones – retro rings – make believe of days when landlines were the only ticket.

Smack of the bat, slide…safe!

Children become adults, spring becomes summer and what is old, becomes new once again.

A desiccated pea.  One semi-sweet chocolate chip.  One white chocolate chip.  Various sized broken bits of spaghetti.

Whether it is down couch cushions, car seats – or under the microwave – the resulting booty gives pause for thought.  Remains tell stories.

Though dried of  vitality, stale, and forgotten, there is something to  residue – it survives.  Speaks to Christmas treats,  a dish that missed – or comfort food, repeatedly prepared.  Wizened but sometimes startling memory.

We clean for good reasons, keep things moving forward.  But sometimes forget in the name of progress, that  remains still stand – or wait – in out of the way places, or under the microwave .