Dangerous Compassions

celebration lessons

“Life is too varied,” I told Ming as he drove us home, past a gas station and casinos for locals.  “So easy sometimes, and so hard.  It’s confusing!  Like–will the real life please stand up?  I don’t believe they can be the same thing.”

blood draw

I had a fasting blood draw in the morning.  They pee tested me too, unexpectedly.  The phlebotomist is brilliant and very good at what she does.  She fetched me from the waiting room, and I wanted to ask her, “How’s my favorite phlebotomist?” but felt too shy.

Hospital memories–the midnight phlebotomist who failed twice in my arm then jabbed me in the wrist.  The one who said, “I’m sorry,” then went deep.  Bad to remember, like a nightmare, but it changed so much, last year.  So rich with learning I never wanted to learn.

Then we went to International Market.  There were a lot of capers.

international market
[Market shelf shows jars and jars of capers and olives.]
I was longing to see things, not to buy stuff necessarily, but objects and newness.  Well, I specifically wanted dried fava beans without their jackets and black lentils.  We found those–amazing.

sliced fruit
[Sliced Asian pear with speckled yellow skin and white flesh, on a white paper plate.]
And perfect delicious hard wet sweet cold gorgeous Asian pears.  Oyster mushrooms pretty cheap, beets, lemongrass I’m trying to propagate.  It’s fun.  Lemongrass is my favorite tea.

how to celebrate
“I didn’t celebrate enough, those good test results I got at the cabin,” I told Ming.   “Not having cancer is really different from having cancer.  I want to celebrate for a week, not half an hour.”
“I think–a month!” Ming said.  
“Yeah!” I said.  We smiled at one another.  He changed lanes to turn left.  “I don’t know how to celebrate.  Maybe I need celebration lessons.”
I get the feeling most people drink; we don’t drink.  Or other drugs–nope.  Amazing food is an everyday thing, around here.  Rituals are great.  Maybe taking a trip.  Covid makes travel different.
lilac of the desert
“I love this chaste tree,” I said.  It’s blooming often, right at the north corner of our street and the big cross-street.  Looks like lilac.  I get excited.
“Whoever planted this tree is my fucking hero,” I said.  “Which is pretty weird, for a chaste tree.”

By Laura-Marie

Good at listening to the noise until it makes sense.

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