Velvet black pool swallowing me up.

No light, no sound can enter.

Or wait, the shadow of a sound,

muted, distant.

My heart is pulled down, down,

down below my feet.

My heart is lead,

an anvil,

a rusted hulk.

The velvety depths wash over me.

I move through molasses,

eyes glazed, unseeing.

My body is a carapace,

threatening to drift away at the slightest vibration,

no heart there to anchor it.

[scs_alt]

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This, I discovered, is the secret to feeling connected,

part of the group, belonging: get involved.

Effort in = benefits out.

But who wants to commit?

Who has time?

Isn’t there quick fix I could use instead?

Like learning to play the piano, quick fixes don’t fix anything.

They just delay your reaching that pot of gold.

You can’t fudge being involved.

You are, or you’re not.

And everything worth doing requires time and effort.

[scs_alt]

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I made a clay chariot in what, sixth grade?

I had no idea how to make a chariot,

and I can’t now remember why I made a chariot —

perhaps as part of a module on Greek myths?

I have a faint sense that I used a chopstick for an axle.

And a stronger sense that the “wall” of the chariot kept detaching from the base.

These were the days when the only thing to go on

was a tiny illustration in the dictionary,

maybe a photo in the encyclopedia.

Now you can probably get step-by-step plans online.*

*Indeed. I just did a Google search on “how to build a chariot,” and there were more than 48,100,000 results.

[scs_alt]

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Wise men say that happiness comes from wanting what you have,

yet I keep wanting what I don’t have, too,

and I don’t expect that to stop anytime soon.

I think wanting what you have is called gratitude.

It’s not mutually exclusive from desire.

There’s so much I crave, even while I’m counting my blessings,

awed and silenced by the enormity of my good fortune.

Still I want more.

Hunger is like that.

The belly stays full for only so long

before it cries out for the next meal.

[scs_alt]

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Once you’ve seen them dance in tutus,

it’s hard to accept that these twinkle-toed living boulders

are the cause of more human deaths

than any other African creature.

On safari, the guides carry guns more for hippos

than for lions, or alligators, or venomous snakes.

When a hippo charged up the bank at the tour group

my brother and sister-in-law were on,

the armed leader had to shoot it dead to save human lives.

I’m glad I wasn’t there.

A dead ballerina is a sad sight to behold.

[scs_alt]

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