february

the heart house circa 2010 (now demolished, only an empty grassy lot)
there were angel statues in the windows

February. The pink month. The month hemmed with lace to soften its sharp edges. The month that wears hearts on the sleeves of its winter coat, for the snowflakes - icy valentines - are 

falling 

falling 

falling 

from the sky.

* * *

And time grinds on.

A few months ago I decided to make a change and naively stupidly believed simply making the decision was the hard part; that the universe would be so delighted with me it would clap its hands together, roll out a red carpet, and fling wide the doors. Perhaps even set a tiara on my head. (A small one, but sparkly). In fact, making the decision was hard but implementing it turns out to be even harder and involves any number of things that are necessary but far outside my comfort zone, any number of things I have mostly no control over. I'm almost completely at the mercy of geography and opportunity.

This change is one of process, with protocols to follow, although mostly it feels like a bullshitty game and I hate playing it, but it's the way the game is played and so I must. 

It's frustrating to make a decision like this and fall forward into nothing, the kind of nothing you hear after a magician taps his hat with his wand, the rimshot is played, the puff of smokes clears and 

no rabbit 

no dove 

no ladder of silky scarves

just the magician standing with an empty hat in hand, wondering what went wrong. And repeating this over and over and over again.

I find myself longing for way more than six impossible things before breakfast, lunch, and dinner, magical things, and I promised myself this year that unless I can wiggle my nose and unspill the milk, or click my shoes and wake up in California, unless I can pull a fat white rabbit out of a hat, there will be no magical thinking.

The meaning of magic, like so many good words, has been diluted beyond recognition. In my personal vocabulary, I aim to put it back into its rightful usage.

So no magic here.

Just waiting. 

Responding to the process when it calls.

Working on a snippet of writing here, and color mixing experiments there and entirely too much baking. Rereading Little Women and after that will be Francie and A Tree Grows In Brooklyn. I listen for the train in the distance and take odd comfort in the sound of the dishwasher. There is a kitten who leaves crumpled paper balls on the bed, and a big orange cat who sits with me while I watch luge, snowboarding, skiing (sports I only watch every four years). I dream of Michigan in the fall, and wonder if all of this will have worked itself out by then. I make my own comforts.

And it will be March soon.

The green month.

The lucky month. 

Magic may be a no go, 

but I never said anything about luck.