I drink the excellent Peruvian coffee made from hand-roasted beans and carried back for me, see beside the bed a little jumble of socks, stripes and bead-like flowers and favorite colors, garnet and lichen, plum and powder blue, and feel blessed—despite the vital things that have been severed from my days. Time; a place to sit, be still, be me, be with my words, be more than they want me to be; time; the shade of reverent old trees; time; the possibility of a café; time; a place to walk; birdsong; time, oh time.
I must learn to rearrange my weeks, and find some way to cook again, allow for leftovers and quickly-thrown-together salads, for these shorter, now restricted days. To overcome my spirit’s exhaustion at the injury done it, and rebound (or some better verb, indicating the regrowth of trees after duress—or the poor ivy plants I left sitting in the hot car all day, which are bravely putting out new shoots).
image: church tower clock, Nieuw