With a broken-down oven, in a hotel kitchen, on an uninhabited island
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Now I believe in everything.
Aromatherapy: peppermint and sandalwood
and lavender and especially frankincense,
because, you know, the Three Wise Men.
Mindful breathing, I believe in that, too.
Mindful eating, mindful walking, mindful
anything at all. Incense and holy water,
especially when my grandmother sprinkled it
on our car before a long trip. The power
of positive thinking and the wisdom of expecting
the worst. Eerie coincidences and anniversaries.
Plant-based proteins, antioxidants, micronutrients, and superfoods.
Ground flaxseed on your oatmeal.
Cutting-edge pharmacology and computer-assisted
surgery and gene therapy. Also
talk therapy and shock therapy and art
therapy, therapy dogs and therapy horses,
bibliotherapy and emotive therapy, both
rational and irrational.
I believe in church basements and all the steps,
not just the twelve famous ones, every slogan,
and I especially believe in that guy in Saint Paul who used to say,
“Fuck your bad day. Work the program.”
I believe in Saint Christopher and Saint Anthony,
John and Paul, Cosmas and Damian,
the Buddha and the Dalai Lama and Satchel Paige,
who knew that fried foods “angry up the blood.”
And I believe in my friend Ron,
whose only advice for his children
was: Always stop at a lemonade stand.
Doesn’t matter where you’re going, who’s
waiting for you, or how late you are.
You pull over, get out of the car,
take it all in, savor the sun on your face,
the sweetness on your tongue,
this little kid watching
you drop a twenty in her jar.