Sacred Mess

Stay together friends.
Don't scatter and sleep.
Our friendship is made
of being awake.
--Rumi

I annointed two kitchens with coffee this weekend, watched it erupt out of cups and pots, the dark liquid running along counters and dripping on floors, as hands with towels rushed to contain it and voices immediately comforted: no problem, don't worry. There was a lot of stuff around, a box of tissues here, a notebook there, gleaming laptops strewn on the floor among pillows, plates of nuts and cookies balancing precariously on oatmeal rugs, cream couches.

Sweaters nestled in loose wrinkles on shoulders and around collarbones, hair softened and curled in the humid air, socks and slippers snuggled unevenly on ankles and around toes. Eye makeup didn't stand a chance, as tears welled and rolled down cheeks, noses pink with emotion and empathy and love.

In the evenings, when smaller groups gathered, glasses fell off the side of the hot tub like apples from trees, knocked by passionate arms that could not be contained, moving with the rising voices and laughter in the night sky. They fell behind there, don't worry, there is no glass in our pathway.

The chaos of women's voices was a gorgeous, messy music, and our chorus leader, conducting with hands large enough to hold us all, took our breath away at every turn. There will be no turning these voices off. Until the middle of the night they pierced the air; belly laughter, open-mouthed gasps, and heartbroken tears, in concert together.

Finally, the last of us must separate, for a short time tonight, and a much longer time tomorrow. I brush the crumbs and pistachio shells off the sheets where we've been sitting and climb in. Okay, I will go to bed now. But I will never really be asleep again.