Easter Monday

open your heart:
i’ll give you a treasure
of tiniest world
a piece of forever with

summitless younger than
angels are mountains
rivery forests
towerful towns(queen

poet king float
sprout heroes of moonstar
flutter to and
swim blossoms of person)through

musical shadows while hunted
by daemons
seethe luminous
leopards(on wingfeet of thingfear)

come ships go
snowily sailing
perfect silence
absolute ocean

E. E. Cummings (yes, you can capitalize his name) is very much my Spring Poet, my Easter Poet. I am choosing to channel Mr. Cummings over the creeping insecurities and nameless fears that linger in my heart this Easter Monday.

Speedy proved as challenging as ever yesterday, consuming most of my evening energy as I tried unsuccessfully to walk him on the narrow path to compliance, avoiding Power Struggle on one side and Punishment Spiral on the other. Finally I sent him to bed in an uneasy truce that I chalked up as a victory. But I am very aware that this is a struggle for the long hall. Had I expected this to be easy, I would have been discouraged. But instead, Speedy left me feeling tired.

Then, at midnight, a disturbing phone call. I bolt from bed and as I answer a woman says,

“Yes, Who’s this?” I say.
“You actin’ like you don’t know.” she says, cryptically, and adds, “How’s Heidi?”
So this isn’t someone who’s phoned the wrong Cody. That’s happened before.
“Who is this again?”
“You act like you don’t know.” Again.
“What do you need? Why are you calling?”
Click. Dial tone.

My only guess is it’s Mr. Freshpants’ birth mom, with whom we maintain some contact, sending pictures and such when she’s in jail, allowing visits when she’s clean. We wanted Mr. Freshpants to know his birth mom and if contact with her son could be a motivation to stay off the drugs, we wanted her to have that inspiration. But now the whole “open adoption” idea is seeming like a bad one. From the sound of the phone call, she didn’t seem very clean. It was Easter and she was probably thinking about her kid. I couldn’t tell if she was angry, but the call was just enough to spark all sorts of “drugged up woman out there plotting to take our child” scenarios that kept me up past the wee hours. The sleep I got last night was fitful at best. On “wingfeet of thingfear” indeed.

And so I woke up this morning with an odd mix of hope and nameless dread and offered prayer for Speedy, Mr. Freshpants, and his Birth Mom. And us. And then preceded to gather up the bits of Easter still left in my heart and fan them like embers in an effort to rekindle something of the feeling I had at yesterday’s worship.

What else can I do but read poetry and pray? Worrying won’t do me no damn good. Chop wood, carry water, channel cummings. Turn the rest over.

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