This is going to be creaky as sheeyit.
I've forgotten how to write in long sentences, all strung together, with a common thought to bind them one to another.
Many things are to blame, but the focus right now is on Facebook, and how easy it's made it to 'connect' with people we either know, want to know, or don't know at all and just clicked' friend' in a moment of stalkery/drunkenness/enthusiasm/evil.
It's all so easy.
And, well, predictable.
A friend (hiddenmahala
, go read her now) has started blogging again, and it's like a breath of fresh mountain air sweeping through a musty valley of ennui, I have to tell you. She has words, they're good words, possibly the best words, and she will and does use them better than anybody else.
However, I too have words, and feel like using them, so...
It's a beautiful evening in the 27587. Cool, clear, bright still in the late afternoon sun (it's 6:30 as I write this; we won't see dark for at least another 2 hours). The windows are open, birds are mingling voice, wind is shushing around the grown-in leaves on the trees. Traffic noise is minimal, and for some strange reason nobody is mowing their yard right now. It's peaceful, is what it is.
The day has been fitful, at once productive but not nearly as much as it could have been. I've yet to absorb the 'text on nature' photo memes that exhort to make every day count, go conquer the world, be breathtaking before breakfast, etc. I just don't have that kind of life life anymore. Making every day count to me now means making note of the small things, like waking up, and peeing when I want, and being in love, and having something tasty for lunch while living in a home I can afford in a body that doesn't hurt most of the time that can pick up a book, whenever, and read. Making every day count doesn't mean I have to DO anything, now, it means that what is present in this day, counts.
Even if I spend 80% of it in my pajamas, it still counts.
My desk is in our bedroom. It's three steps from bed to work. The desk is positioned so I can look out our bedroom window into the back garden, where nothing is planted.
The squirrels and birds don't seem to mind. They are busy out there every day, pulling worms from the soil or hopping picket-top to picket-top (birds the former, squirrels the latter). Every so often a flitter of activity catches my eye, and I must look out to see what tiny bit of miracle is there, doing their thing. It's wonderful, to have that window.
After I had my second son, by c-section, I was confined to the hospital for 5 days (4 nights). I was not allowed to go outside, so I wandered the halls in search of a vantage point that would get me the widest views, the sunniest spot, the vista I longed for, that sense of space. I would wheel my baby boy in his bassinet with me, because I had gotten in trouble once for carrying him around the halls, the nerve of me. Seeing the world was a connection, a necessity, to keep staying present with what was happening, even if it was something as mundane as a car pulling into the parking lot, a child's voice, a sailboat coming into the marina.
A window to look out of is important. Appreciation for what is present in it is important too.
Gitchu to a window, and see what you've not noticed before.
Like I said, I'm rusty at this. I'd hate to go on too long, and I think this is long enough.
I'll be back soon.