Buckle up.

   I am like a kangaroo sloth. Hiding a tiny baby marsupial the size of an olive. Moving so slowly. Like I am covered in heavy, wet, draped wool. I can't catch my breath, even though I have barely moved. Everything is still. In some other dimension, another me is running up a hill, all day. And I feel her energy slipping constantly, I have to sit down, I am winded. Then she is dancing with a partner I can't see. It takes my breath away, I am dizzy, I am queasy, the dance must be too fast. And all I can do is lie down and close my eyes. Or read someone else's story, to distract me from the dancing. She and I are linked together with spider web thin, invisible strings, bridging our lives. She is wildly moving, determined and powerful. While I am linked to her, my body does not belong to me. It belongs to something else. It's slipped into the big pool. The collective. The everything.  It will live there for a while. Until this tiny body growing inside of mine has gotten all it needs from me. Then this new person and I will give each other a little bow and the tags come off. Then my body will be exclusively mine again and I can wrap my bat wings tightly around myself and exhale deeply. Mine, mine, mine. And hang upside down just for a few minutes.
   For now, I am strapped into a ride. The things I feel have little to do with what I am doing. The mystery is whole and complete. The ride has begun. I cannot get off mid-ride. I will have to wait, for a long while. I do not know what is in store.
   At first I panicked. I fumbled at the seat belt, wondering how it had gotten fastened so tight, so quickly. I had been standing in line for so long, not quite sure I wanted to go on the ride at all. Suddenly, there I was and I could feel the car jerk forward and start to move slowly on it's track, click, click, click. This is it. I am on. I am not getting off. Maybe I can still do what I was doing before I got on this ride. I can try. I tried. I couldn't. I settled into the ride. My elbow found a spot to rest on the side of the car, my face rested in my hand, I looked around. Not much to see.
   The ride is jerky and slow. So slow. You would think it was just me on the ride. A one woman car. But it is not. It is me and the whole world. It is me with everything. It is me in the everything. My me-ness is insignificant. I belong to something else. The ride has taken me. Whisked me away, snatched me up, grabbed me with a hook from the side of the stage and pulled me off scene. Then plopped me into the slow car. The sloth mobile of sharing. To ride and ride.
   When it is done... let us not think of the end of the ride. Out beyond the end, there is a chance, there is the possibility of amazing and happy things. Someone waits for me there. Someone who has been waiting a long while for their own ride to begin. A ride they desperately wanted to get on. THE ride. The one we all wanted to get on.  One I would not trade for anything. One I wish would go on forever.
   I guess, to give someone that chance, is worth whatever I have to do to get them there. To get them here. To bring that wishing, wanting, someone home. Where they want to be. And when they get here, I will be glad. And I will say, "Put your arms up when we go down the big hills. It's more fun that way."

Winter's nose.

   Winter's so nosy. Sticking it's nose into every last thing. It slips in your doors without asking, peeks through your windows, finds the smallest seam, and welcomes itself into your room. It wants to see what you smell like, what your toes are up to.
   Look out the window, all you see is Winter. Even the wooden fence looks cold. Every little thing braces itself, contracted and still, tolerating Winter's scrutiny.
   Oblivious to the wake it leaves where it wanders. Someone at a party who is talking too loud, tossing inappropriate stories around the room, like little ice grenades. The rest of us glance at each other and shiver through our layers of silk, wool, fleece and fur.
   We become like animals hiding in our dens, waiting. Stretching out a pale, bare hand to see, how cold it is. It is still very cold. We tuck our hands back under the blankets, pull them up to our chins, burrow deeper in. What month is this? What month comes next? The next month is cold too. Surely, not as cold as this one. I think this is the coldest. Then what month follows... Oh it could be spring. Maybe Spring will come when it used to, at Easter. I will eat the forsythia when it blooms. In hopes that the soft yellow bloom will replenish something I lost. Something Winter borrowed without asking, took for itself, used up and left somewhere else. I don't know exactly what it is but I can feel it's absence. I check my pockets, pat myself down, pat the table, it was here a minute ago. Distracted by the cold fingers running through my hair. I swat them away. What was I looking for? Maybe a hat. Where is my hat? I turn the thermostat up two degrees.
   My radiators keep up a steady, sweaty river dance in the corners. Tapping, clanking, hissing and snapping. A little hot rivulet of water runs up and out through a steaming metal anchor in the floor.  It puddles on the floor. Surprised by it's warmth as I wipe it up with a towel. Like blood from a fresh wound. You cannot fight winter, stay in the pipes where you belong. It will be over, eventually. We just have to wait. Move your attention to the sunlight. Look. Look here. 
   The sun is like a mother's hand, smoothing your brow. You're okay, she says. She smiles. I am here. It's only winter. I can still hear some birds song, can you? She pokes her fingers through the crystals in the window and rainbows scatter around the room.
  Inside, color reigns. Flowers stand tall on the table. Brightly patterned fabric, pillowed couch, blankets, piles of toys. We'll wait it out. Classical music plays, a sweet smell of banana pancakes hangs in the air for a few moments longer. We wade through the cold air on the floor. Where are my slippers? What else can we cook? We can leave the oven on and huddle in front of it. What's for lunch, Winter asks? I don't remember inviting you, Winter. Why don't you go into town and pick something up? We'll wait here.