by cheri block
I am trying as mightily as a yoga master to stay in the present moment.
It’s hard when your inconsiderate neighbor’s yappy dog continues to bark.
Bark. Bark, Bark. Pause. Motorized vehicle. Pitched irritated bark. Another motorized vehicle. Hammering. Bark.
All on a Sunday.
The shattering of calm amidst the wistful breezes of my late-August reverie.
I know. It’s 1967 and I am frisky and quick like a little filly looking for a colt. Its “going back to school” time. Cheerleader practice in the cool cement shadows of the amphitheater, walking home through the football field, its carpet of freshly cut grass like catnip to an impish feline. My new school clothes- tweed and wool- to be worn in November, laid out on my bed in my powder-blue room, freshly starched blouses, my mother’s fragrant kitchen and my father’s fun. My jeep.
This Sunday afternoon, I lapse into unremitted sentimentality and loss. Mainly loss of quiet. G-d Damnit. I now see how ranchers resort to shooting wolves after their sheep.
“Let it go, let it go, let it go,” I tell myself in soothing internal language.
Even my own dog Dinah, who only barks at an occasional rustle in the night, is annoyed today.
Henry David Thoreau wrote in Walden that one could suffocate on too much courtesy, but I wouldn’t mind trying to come up for air.
Oh God of the Eclipse, of Cosmic Justice, of Just Desserts–please bring upon my noisy neighbors the curse of the Carmelite Nun.
And now, to a Chardonnay.