fresh air.

this morning found me in central park with little zoobie (my very dearest sixteen-month-old friend).

we pointed out all the ruff-ruffs (dogs) and made fish-faces upon coming to the pond. the carriage horses elicited long neighs which led to a detailed discussion of all other animals sounds. both of us noshing on our bianca (pizza bread) all the while.

and when my phone rang little zoobie looked up and asked, mamma?

i laughed, looked at the screen and said, yes, but my mamma.

i spoke briefly to my mother, aware of the little girl in front of me.

we spoke of oscar dresses. and who we thought looked best. and work. and guys. and how tricky that can be. and somewhere in our oh-so-brief-but-all-encompassing conversation my mother gave me the best advice of my life.

let me preface:

you see i've been a bit batty of late. working extra hours. and trying desperately to survive the last throws of winter and the inefficiency of the mta (ny's mass transit system). and feeling the need for a change but not knowing what that change need be. and if i haven't said it before, let me say it now, i do not. deal well. with uncertainty. and i suppose that's what i've been feeling: uncertainty. winter becoming spring. paying jobs taking back seats to pipe dreams. new adventures and necessary good-byes.

so my mother in her infinite wisdom said... (are you ready for this?)....(wait)...okay:

relax.

she chuckled and told me to relax.

and with that one word i felt my entire chest open up.

the tight coil sprang loose and my shoulders fell into place and i could breathe. and laugh.

and not take myself too seriously.

and space arose where before there was none.

perhaps it was the weather. and the little girl in front of me. and the trees overhead. perhaps it was all those things. because this morning that one word was like fresh-air in some damn tired lungs.

shared silence.

they walked side by side, her arm slipped awkwardly through his, the quiet transporting them to separate worlds.

overhead streetlights pulsed quickly--continuously, illuminating each of the thousand unanswered questions.

and it was there, amidst the questions and the silence and the faint glow of uncertainty, that she first wondered whether to silently un-slip her arm--to stop moving--to stand still and watch as the slow world's current quietly carried him away.

but she continued on. in an effort to match the unnatural cadence--to find a silence they could share.

{ps: regularly scheduled programing begins again. tomorrow.}

the question.

he was too far gone to be taken seriously--the question mark at the end of the bar.

but she felt alone and out of place and he made her giggle.

and he asked her what no one before had,

did she want to be beautiful?

i've been thinking a lot about faith lately. and belief. or disbelief, maybe. spirituality. and religion. mysticism. how these things differ. and how the semantics here is vital. or is it? where is the crossover among all these things--the delineations?

i can't really speak to what it means to be a catholic. all i can do is to speak to my own experience.

in reaching into my mind--drawing the memory blanket over those countless sunday mornings i remember doughnuts paid for with quarters, advent wreaths, and the luxurious robes of priests.

i remember kneeling on the plush, green velvet, my little arms struggling to make it to the top of the pew before me. i remember countless prayers and incantations. the ringing of the bells and my mother's fist as she lightly pressed it to her chest.

i am a product of my catholic upbringing. it is where my beliefs began--where they were shaped. and in thinking over all the details there are two sermons that stand at the foreground of my mind.

1. i remember the day the priest explained why it is we read the same passages again and again. because they are metaphors, he said. because they are not meant to be taken literally, because there is always more--more to learn, more to cull, more to interpret.

in falling in love with writing i feel understand the bible and the manner in which it came to be better than ever before.

bottom of the cup.

she stared into the bottom of her coffee cup, looking for renegade pieces of bean--bits gone unnoticed by the grinder. she noted the formation of new bubbles against the hard, white clay.

feeling his eyes upon her she wondered if this was the end. or just the next step.

her elbow pushed into the dark wood of the counter.

whose move was next? whose answer would come first?

and in the silence, her dark hair cutting a half-mask across her face, she thought: this is when i ask him to fall in love with me.

instead she pushed back the stool and went to refill her cup.