Raw, adjective: 8. brutally harsh or unfair: a raw deal

Came home last night to news of the bridge collapse in Minneapolis. What a jarring way to settle down at the end of a long day. I've been watching the updates with interest, as both of my sisters live(d) in the area and have huge networks of friends and families in the Twin Cities; we've got a lot of old family friends still there, too, since living there when we were little girls. M wrote this morning that that's the bridge she used to take daily as a student at the U. We had the same feeling here when the bridge meltdown happened a few months ago, albeit to a much, much lesser degree; the difference between the two being, of course, that that was at 4 am on a Sunday, and this was (scarily) at mid-week rush hour. Can you imagine being at that Twins game and trying to play or pay attention knowing what was going on outside?!?

Amazing how things like this, or 9/11, make us feel small and vulnerable and so not in-control, so at the mercy of nature and chance, and we sail along on that heightened awareness for awhile, and then slowly, surely, we creep back to feeling invulnerable and in-charge, per usual.

Over the weekend the boys and I took a winding tour along Highway 1. If you're not familiar with the Great Highway, it's the one clinging to the hillside overlooking the Pacific, the one you should ideally drive in a top-down old Mustang convertible wearing movie star sunglasses and a scarf wrapped around your head singing showtunes. (Well, maybe the showtunes part is just my addition.) It twists and turns and you feel like, especially at dusk as it was when we finally curled around the edges of the Marin headlands past Point Reyes, you could easily, at any moment, veer off the cliff into the water below and disappear forever, without anyone on that desolate strip of highway knowing you were gone. We pulled off by Wright Beach and rolled our pant legs up and walked the rocky beach a little; Tom and the Bro wandered southward and I did some Warrior and Standing Bow poses and felt the wind and the late afternoon sun setting and the rocky sand and the high tide crashing in, and felt small, so small, so quickly capable of being caught up a wave and washed out to sea the same way that cliff could've come out of nowhere and that would've been it, too, on the heels of the tune we were wailing as we rounded the bend.

So I guess the point is: make sure you're singing Sondheim when you hit the hairpin turns, and definitely not anything Andrew Lloyd Webber, because you SO do not want to go out singing "Cats;" and if you're doing Standing Bow on the beach, plant yourself far enough back that when you fall out of it (and you will) you don't fall into the high tide.

Because dee-amn, we are small.


Bacon Dad said…
I'd avoid the driving scarf in a convertible. Don't want to go out all Isadora Duncan up in this piece.

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