Practicing Life

My head ached and throbbed from nape of neck to temples to eye sockets as I boarded the bus, dropped my coins into the apparatus at the front and found an aisle seat towards the back of the bus. Soon all the seats filled and the business people moved like seaweed to the ebb and flow of the bus, rolling in the traffic tide. Arthritic thoughts climbed in and out of my brain as I let my eyes close. This is life and I will enjoy it. I felt gravity play with my hair, the sounds of freeway hummed lullabies, my neighbor wooed his cell phone in a foreign tongue. The sunlight raced up and down the bus as we turned north and then west again. Every cell in my body was aware that we were heading west: the long shadows of the sky scrapers fell far behind us, as did the thoughts of filing, running reports and unread email. West, where the sun sets and only lengthens the shadows of sea gulls and palm trees. West, where the waves produce a constant breeze so different from the distilled air of cubicles and corner offices. West, where we remember how small we are on the edge of a continent.

I arrived at the jazz club where I would meet my family, spoke softly of the maze of pain my thoughts were wandering. My mother offered aspirin and red wine in a glass so fragile and large, I forgot the sweat, my unkempt curls, and my bra straps that showed from beneath my tank top, as I shed a layer of business casual. My family trickled in between throbs, menus opened, and chatter whirred about the table as waiters poured water, wine and coca cola. The wine seeped into my bloodstream, allowing thoughts to ease through my brain.

The jazz musicians began to play, tending a garden of musical tendrils and vines, growing and spiraling and flowering from the stage. Pressing into the ears, the minds, the heartbeats, the smiles, the foot taps, the breath of the audience.