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
.jpg)
you need a good thunderstorm.
ReplyDeleterain and lashes of wind. and lightning and enormous thunderous roar!
it always helps me.
but it is long in coming.
it is very long in coming.
until then... we must both be like your little ivy plants in the hot car. we must just silently and bravely put out our new green shoots.
A thunderstorm—thank you! I always adored them in Santa Fe. And when I visited Baja, I was excited to see one coming, but when it finally arrived things just got ten times more humid and no cooler. But what great events they are.
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