The prompt this time was the Leonard Cohen Song, “Anthem,” sung by Perla Betalla and Julie Christensen (on the tribute album I’m your Man). Click on the video above to hear the song.
What I wrote is below.
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I wish you rest, that’s what I wish for you. Deep, dreamless sleep. Not those morning mares, like the one you had this morning, where you were being hustled by another sexy man who was out to rob you. Grabbed your crotch as a “joke.” Or the curious one you had Saturday morning, where your friend opened the door, all her hair grown back after chemo, holding a puppy named Atlas. I wish you dreamless sleep with nothing to analyze in the morning light.
You need rest, we all do, because aren’t we just so weary, so worn thin, so tired of having to negotiate everything: a trip to the grocery store, a visit with a friend, a hug? Even what’s for dinner. I wish you delivery service, someone with kind, shiny brown eyes behind a big black mask, delivering food to you in compostable containers. You’ll give them a 30% tip and do your part to keep plastic out of the oceans. A guilt free meal you don’t have to plan, shop for, scrounge up, or prepare.
I wish you some sense of warmth: a long bath with candles and a novel to get lost in, a white faux fur throw on the couch, a cat in your lap, or another body next to yours, another heart beat synching with your own.
The to do list can wait. The documents you need to scan, the recipe you want to share, the trip to UPS to return those drip pans you knew wouldn’t fit, but promised a porcelain finish, an easy clean up, one less household chore to accomplish. Water the plants tomorrow. Give yourself up to the not knowing, to wandering down a street you haven’t wandered down before, the way you used to dreamily drift past storefronts, before they were boarded up, before life changed from the one that you used to complain about, to the one that you miss so terribly now.
Rest, dear one. Make room for it every day, the way you make room for afternoon tea, or take the time to apply lotion to your skin. You don’t need a hammock or a Tibetan brass bowl. You don’t need anything at all.
The Catalyst 