How to Make a Bed

One way to strip a bed is with an aerobic form vengeance. Is it productive to feel discounted that a seemingly entitled house guest has not brought her bedding upstairs to the laundry area? Only if you like that sort of cardio workout. I prefer dancing. It is perhaps equally futile to assume she is feeling entitled. Maybe she's uncertain of the routine. Maybe she's jet-lagged and cluelessly occluded - floating above any cognizance of protocol. Communication is key here. Something on the order of this may be stated next time I show her to her room upon arrival:

"It would be lovely if you'd bring your sheets and towels up when you're through downstairs. Are you willing to do that?"

Then, when the visit is complete, and the last dish or piece of folded laundry is put away, the making of the bed can be accompanied by a happy dance done to a hum of gratitude. Lyrics run through my head: "I'm so glad for the time we had. You grace the space with your goofy-loving face." Reminiscing and savoring the conversation, cooking side-by-side, wine toasts, collective awe at the dropping of the sun through a gloriously colored cloud bank into the sizzling sea. Aaah... That's the way I prefer to make a bed.

With three of my L.A. writing buddies here over the weekend, each of whom brought all her sheets, towels, and personal items up, we devoured good food cooked together, too much chocolate and too many bottles of wine, savored the succor of deep conversation, and listened to one another's writing. At the end of the day on Sunday, I blitzed the house with blissful zeal and slightly misty eyed longing, because I wanted them all to linger longer. They called shortly after they left, which was four hours after we all thought they ought to leave. They wanted to include me in the closing reading which we forestalled so they could get on the road and back to Los Angeles before midnight. They asked me to read the piece we'd chosen as part of the ceremony of closure. It is "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer...

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

With gratitude do I welcome my company, with gratitude do I make the beds.

Now, to welcome my honey back from four days of camp, I make the bed with relish. Hold the mayo. Looking forward to a lovely catch-up.