Published: November 17, 2010


I asked the steady, still waters of a Maine Bay to lend me

some of its calmness, and I think it worked. Now I have this

annoying sense of tranquility that won’t leave me alone.

When I feel that I have too much to do, or when I feel lonely and

have the impulsive desire to scream out my lungs, it enters, the calmness enters.

It starts at the curves of my toes, working its way up, delicately through my legs,

my stomach, my chest, my neck. When it finally reaches my face, I can feel my eyes

soften back, and my lips curve into  a quick smile, and then I can’t seem to be able to

scream anymore, even though I had really, really felt like screaming.

It’s starting to become a little bit disturbing. The calmness has begun to invade

everything, I find it everywhere: in the bathroom sink, in a car mirror, in a light-bulb,

in the bottom of my purse. And when I was one of enlarged doe-eyes, pulled-out

hair, and nails bitten to the skin, I had thought I wanted it. But now that it’s sticking like

a terminal illness, an unrequited love, or silly putty, the calmness won’t leave me alone.