Imagine fall rolled in over night and you left all the windows open. Adam had trouble getting out of the warm bed, and you hopped downstairs with him to move your bike so he could get to work. It was still dark and you were in your pajamas, folding your cold arms in front of you and tasting that sweet, spicy air. You curl back into bed just to lie a while. When you get back up you are wiser, and bundle several layers over your pajamas, taking time to close the windows of the flat. The cupboards are bare, so you begin baking bread. You get write while it rises. Your fresh clothes are cold against your skin.
On break at work, the tables outside are empty. You like it better that way. The street is nice and quiet. The steam from your cup rises into the cool afternoon while you munch on trail mix and write a poem. You will have more hot chocolate when you get home. The wind is cold as you make your way there, but it feels good, and your yellow hat warms your ears. The streets are littered with leaves.
The room we share is a small room with wide windows and walls painted dusty red. I like to drink tea on the sofa by the window with the yellow pillows, resting my cup on the ledge. Outside there is a tree. It is a quiet room, on the second story of some brick house. Most of the time we don’t say much, but I hear you making me coffee. I like your presence at the breakfast table, the sound of your sipping. You smile a small morning smile over the plate of bread and I smile back.
Most of the time it is like this with you and I: a quiet presence, a love that runs deep below the surface, warmer than the sun resting on our hands through the window. You made lightening bugs. You made whispers.
I love you. Thank you for your kindness. Thank you for days when your hands are very small and close and quiet.
Adam is far away in Lincoln, Nebraska, and I am hogging all the blankets. And all the pillows. I also watched The Office in bed last night on my laptop. I am such a badass.
(Never mind that I called him three times and was earnestly worried most of the afternoon when I heard the car broke down.)
Speaking of worry, Eliot, little man? If you are reading this, I just wanted to let you know that I haven’t seen you since before work yesterday, and that worries me, you little punk. I know you are probably off having adventures, but get your butt back here soon, okay?
I don’t think I’ve ever been a particularly patient person. Maybe when it comes to little things I am. I can wait to take a shower. I can relax in traffic. I can even be patient for bread dough to rise. It’s bigger things, like understanding the way something works, the way someone feels, what we’re aiming for, where we’re headed: those are the things I can never seem to be patient for. I suppose that’s because I’m worried that if I don’t seize them right away, I’ll miss them. Those are things I never want to miss.
This month feels like a month of waiting. Waiting for the trees to change. Waiting to see what’s in store for us next year. Waiting to think up the next pivotal chapter of my book. Waiting for the breezes to blow cooler. All this waiting is sometimes quietly beautiful, sometimes a bit taxing.
Lately I have learned how to be right where I am. Right now, it’s the middle of September, 2008. The last three years, I have watched wish after secret wish come true. Now the market is full of peppers, tomatoes, and the last of the apples, and I am sitting on the couch with Eliot-Cat and my Adam as the morning light begins to filter through the trees. I am happy. I don’t know what’s next. I am waiting.
I’m totally feeling this song today. Typical goofy old Badly Drawn Boy music video (with clips from the film About a Boy). Not feeling the video so much as the music. But either way, Badly Drawn Boy is back in my ears, and autumn might just officially be here.
Outside our bedroom window are the leaves of a tall tree. As I write this morning, three small sparrows are gnawing on its tough, red berries. I tried a small bite of one once. It was tasteless and bitter, probably poisonous. It makes me happy to see the birds enjoy them. It makes me happy to feel well, again, after a day and a half in bed and a week of being lethargic. Much gratitude to Adam for being the sweetest nurse in the world. Nothing like a bout of sickness to restore one’s enthusiasm. Kids are good at that, too. And sunshine after a rainy spell. And girl talk. And a listening to a good lecture of sorts. And a good, long breeze.
I had a dream about a breeze last night. It was a lovely dream. Maybe I’ll tell you about it sometime.
What are other things that restore your enthusiasm?
Doing dishes just after sunrise in that rare quiet hour of the day. The wild ones have just stumbled back to their beds; the rest are still sleeping or maybe lying in bed or maybe they are awake, too, just walking softly in their slippers. It is still a little chilly, so I wear a pair of long wool socks that do not match my dress. My hair is wet.
Through the window above the sink comes the first lights filtered through trees and a cool breeze that mingles with the steam rising from the hot water. Both feel delightful on my skin. The small swish of water, quiet music. I think about starting a stock when the dishes are done, and maybe a loaf of bread.
Do I have a favorite time of day? This is it. Just after sunrise. The quiet hour of the day
Filed under: creativity, life — lindsey 09-03-08 @ 09.13
For those who study the great art of lying in bed there is one emphatic caution to be added. Even for those who can do their work in bed (like journalists), still more for those whose work cannot be done in bed (as, for example, the professional harpooners of whales), it is obvious that the indulgence must be very occasional. But that is not the caution I mean. The caution is this: if you do lie in bed, be sure you do it without any reason or justification at all. I do not speak, of course, of the seriously sick. But if a healthy man lies in bed, let him do it without a rag of excuse; then he will get up a healthy man. If he does it for some secondary hygienic reason, if he has some scientific explanation, he may get up a hypochondriac.
-G.K. Chesterton from “On Lying in Bed” 1909
For all those of you who find your blanket and pillows delicious under this first breath of cool September air. Read the whole essay here. It is excellent, and makes me want to take my lunch in a tree.
