"One-Hundred Degrees in the Shade"

Dust chases us down the road   

engulfs the car   

swirling like powdered sugar blown from a birthday cake   

coating our sandaled feet as we step into the furnace   

The dogs retreat to bunk bed and chair   

anticipating evening’s approach—   

a breeze, teasing and seductive   

Buffalo grass, brittle reminders of Spring’s bounty   

squat in death   

Cedars, tipped in brown and rust,   

finger summer’s dragon breath in search of moisture   

The naked sky, adorned only by a relentless sun   

yearns for bird song   

Silence, even, languishes in the oppressive heat   

Live Oaks, gnarled limbs supplicating to the cloudless sky   

plea for rain   

Wash away the sins of the world  

 

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Layer of Dust"

  
            I clean.
          When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.
            I clean.
            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.
            I clean.
            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.
            I clean.
            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.
            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.
            A layer of dust.
            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.
            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.
            A layer of dust.
            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.
            A layer of dust.
            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  
 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Sitting 101"

             A normal person wouldn’t need lessons in relaxation. A normal person wouldn’t have to practice the art of sitting still. A normal person wouldn’t have to hear reminders from loved ones to “take it easy” or to “just sit and do nothing.”

            I am famous for my reputation of being unable to sit and do absolutely nothing. I’ll find a rerun on television, listen to music, or grab a book as I head to the couch. I’ll find myself itching to run a dust cloth over the furniture if the TV show doesn’t capture my attention enough. I may set down the book to get a drink in the kitchen and find myself wiping down the counters one-more-time. And music? Well, sometimes I just have to get up and dance!
            So this morning I practiced sitting still. Intentionally, I headed out back without pen and journal in hand. And although I have just finished reading one novel, but I didn’t snatch the next volume from my summer reading pile. I didn’t turn on the television for background, and I didn’t switch on the stereo.
            I sat outside in one of the lounge chairs and listened to the rise and fall of child voices coming over the back fence. Their high pitched squeals mixed with the coos of doves. The breeze felt cool and the morning sun gentle.
            I lasted about fifteen minutes.
            Then the dogs wanted outside, and my foot itched, and my neck needed popping.
            Needless to say, I will have to practice this new skill daily.   
 

Where I plan on conducting my morning "class" each day!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Speck of Dust"

 

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“A Layer of Dust”

 

            I clean.

            When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.

            I clean.

            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.

            I clean.

            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.

            I clean.

            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.

            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.

            A layer of dust.

            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.

            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.

            A layer of dust.

            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.

            A layer of dust.

            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Speck of Dust"

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs ahold of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“A Speck of Dust”

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman