In a world of noise, confusion and conflict, it is necessary that there is a place of inner silence and peace, not the peace of mere relaxation but the peace of inner clarity and love.
Thomas Merton
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At the grocery checkout stand, directly across from me, there is a middle-aged woman, stylish brunette hair, full-figured, who arrived at exactly the same time. This is after standing in massive lines for at least 20 minutes (could have been 15), with loaded carts, no toilet paper, and exasperated expressions.
I’m that shirt, it’s custom-made for me, and I want it. I consider asking if she would switch with me, as if a sorority prank, but I’m wearing a Lululemon jacket over a sports bra so that’s not happening.
Watching her through my foggy lenses (mask issues) I covertly observe her purchases. The clerk scans several boxes of sushi, at least three bags of chips, and a variety of salsas. I see bacon, a selection of cheeses, a box of Wheat Thins, grapes, chocolate and I lost count at five bottles of wine. As Shannon Mayer claims you are a hot mess of contradictions, my friend. Like a bacon and chocolate dessert.
Now I want to be her friend.
She catches my eye, I mean I am blatantly staring at her, and I try to wink because you can’t smile. She lifts an eyebrow and avoids any further eye contact. Does she think I’m attracted to her? I want to explain myself but what would I say? I want your shirt? I’m a Hot Mess too? I like sushi?
I try to mind my own business, but fail, as I watch HOT MESS walk through the sliding doors with her party loot, which she loads in a silver BMW, and heads west out of the parking lot.
Yes, I pulled out my phone, opened the Amazon link, and searched; t-shirt, Hot Mess, black. It will be delivered in two days. Booyah!
Back at the recently vacant homestead Larry and I are preparing to head up to the lake for a few days. We haven’t been in over a month and it feels as if I haven’t been to church? There were various obligations in the Bay Area that created this Hot Mess (so to speak). Julie and Nic moved out, Kelley and Tim moved in, our remodel starts in a week which required the packing up of my favorite things, and then Jesus rose from the dead. Never a dull moment.
We hit the road, stop at the Bahue’s for a fabulous dinner, seared flesh, good wines, great conversation, arriving at the lake before midnight.
Three things happen when I pass through this lakeside portal; my blood pressure drops, my plaque psoriasis goes into remission, and this silly ass feeling lodges in my chest as if I just received an unexpected gift. Oh, and I can’t stop smiling?
I greet the lake with a reverence reserved for Mass, I’m not kidding, somehow this expanse of water invites me to sit at its edge, dangle my toes in the crisp water, it’s as poignant as receiving communion, I feel nourished.
The last time I was here, winter was covering her massive landscape as if a wool blanket, but as I scan the shore today spring has thrown off the coverlet. She jumps out of bed and stands naked before me with all her blooming glory. The word lush comes to mind.
As I scan the grounds, if all we had were bright red tulips that would be enough, but there are white roses, bold geraniums, purple lantana, pink peonies, prolific succulents, and massive trees that have sprouted new leaves after a long dormancy. It reminds me of a vibrant painting, not limited by a frame, or backed by a wall.
Our observations speak volumes, don’t you think?
Larry says, “look how the weeds have taken over the beach.”
I say, “never mind the weeds, what time are Jim and Amy coming to dinner?”
“Around 4:00, we have to drive into town, I need to pick up a few things at the hardware store.”
“I need groceries.”
“Let’s go.”
So we stop at the hardware store first, he picks up a blow torch attachment for a gas tank, and spider spray?
At the food store, I grab salmon, asparagus, lettuce, avocados, tomatoes, and rice.
On the way home I say, “what in the world are you planning to do with that blow torch?”
“I’m going to burn the weeds off the beach.” Apparently, Jim gave him this little idea, I’ll remember to berate him tonight. I mean we live in California, hello we catch fire every summer, and I don’t want the first massive burn to be named the Larry Fire.
“That seems dangerous honey?”
“It’ll be fine.”
“Famous last words.”
As I’m setting the table for dinner, arranging charming yellow tulips in a massive white vase, Larry is attaching the blow torch to his gas tank. He carries the entire contraption down to the beach as if he knows what he’s doing.
I peek over the deck in case I need to douse him with the garden hose. I see a man, with a blow torch, his untamed hair held back with a headband, and it looks as if he’s at war with the weeds, but they’re totally outgunned. He has little flames started in patches all over the beach, but the green weeds are providing some militant resistance, and refuse to burn. He perseveres.
I say, “Larry your shoe is smoking.”
He kicks out the flame, “I’m fine.”
I say, “You’re a Hot Mess.” He thinks I’m complimenting him?
He smiles and says, “later.”
Oh good Lord, who couldn’t love this man? I pull out my phone, open the Amazon link, and order Larry a matching shirt.
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Previously Published on cheryloreglia.com and is republished on Medium.
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