Mah Bunneh
Thursday, May 28th, 2009 | LIFE
- MY BUNNY THAT ISN’T MY BUNNY
That’s my bunny. Well, actually, truth be told, he belongs to someone else.
I have, however, developed a rather close relationship with him. As odd as that may seem. One would never suspect. And it seems I am the only one he has this sort of bond with…
I like that. I’m the crazy lady he loves.
When I descend the stairs each morning, he is usually waiting for me. He is more of a morning creature than I am too. He has trained me to awaken just before 7 am. through the use of a Pavlovian bell that he would keep ringing. I would come down at that time. Now, the bell doesn’t even have to ring. I open the cage to give him his morning love and before I even get my hand near him, he will lower his head to me. That is his way of asking me to touch him. I do my best. Sometimes he gives me kisses. I kid you not, I will pet him and he will lick my hand. It is a form of grooming. I find I am existing in some bizzarro scenario reminiscent of Mice and Men.
When I am busy or occupied intensely with some odd thing, if he is out for the evening, he will either chase me down or, if I am there, simply jump on the couch – literally seeking me out to play or to ask me for some attention. He is sweet that way. Very much so. He also wrestles with me and throws things off the couch if they seem to be taking my attention away. Sometimes he just simply sits with me and is content. And ya know… I love all of it.
I don’t know if it was the rain today, or the mood… maybe VanMorrison’s INTO THE MYSTIC (or a combination) – something was different for me. A crack appeared in the armor. Not that my bunny who really isn’t my bunny had anything to do with that. There was some sort of vulnerability that creeped up on me today. I am usually pretty guarded against such horrific things. I know when something is hormonal or spawned by painful memories… and I can act accordingly. Or hide just enough as to not let on.
Today, I wasn’t as guarded as I thought I was. Feeling vulnerable puts me into a sort-of panic. It really isn’t a panic… I just tend to… try to get the pieces back to where they were before the crack in the wall appeared. Paste them back up quickly before the whole dam bursts wide open.
I was experiencing such… whatever it is I am experiencing today…
and dug out a poem that just about tears my heart out when I read it. I haven’t looked at it in YEARS. I am sure Freud would have a field-day with that.
The first time I read it – it was 3 am in the morning. I sat alone. I actually just sat in some bizarre morphic field and cried. You will see a pattern to my tears: it is either song or poem or an image that cues the rain. And, as I said, I am usually already feeling either hormonal or am already in a funk. (And no one, but no one, sees me cry).
Not today though. Complete surprise today was. At least, that is what I keep telling myself. So in that I didn’t feel quite emotional enough in the beginning of my day, I came home and dug this little gem out. mr ee cummings certainly struck a nerve way back when. And again when I read it after I had my children and could see their beauty and power and vulnerability unfolding in the words below:
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
_______
Today was very odd, however. I finally admitted to myself from my heart of hearts, that what I would love is that someone would see, somehow, somewhere, a beauty and vulnerability in me unfolding in the words.
Were my hands ever perceived so small? Ever?
I cannot imagine anyone ever seeing the power of my intense fragility – when I refuse to show such things. Is there honestly a human touch out there that renders death and forever with each breathing? I imagine if so, it would be something slow and purposeful – fingertips remembering every curve, lips and eyes taking in each detail of the landscape to be remembered somewhere…
I am not sure anyone has ever offered that to me – or I have even permitted the offering.
somewhere i have never travelled.
nobody, not even the rain.
… I want to rock your gypsy soul, just like way back in the days of old and magnificently we will float into the mystic. Too late to stop now… (I’m Van Morrison!)
I love the rain. I think I am going to go hold my bunny for a while.