I’m puttering around the house, vaguely aware of a perpetual list of things to do. One thing done, another jumps up. Wash clothes, fold towels, walk dog, clean kitchen. I sigh. In between the lists and this breath I see a glimmer of nothing and everything. The essence of being just right here. The water for coffee is boiling. A goldfinch nibbles on cornflower. I am breathing. A space opens up. I want to write about it.
There is comfort here, being inside, while it rains outside. A breeze moves through the plant leaves, making them dance, shiver, sway. A chickadee says dee dee dee. A pair of sparrows that has been flying circles through my yard makes another pass. Other sparrows sit out of view, but not out of hearing range, chattering, chirping, filling in sonic spaces. The washing machine colors all the sounds, a bold watery stroke as the drum fills for a rinse cycle. The dryer punctuates everything with arhythmic clatters and clunks.
I’m sitting in a chair I’ve pulled into the kitchen. There’s no space in the kitchen for chairs, but it’s the only room that offers a large view of the backyard without sitting outside. I make this small house work for me although in many ways it does not work for me. It is not near a large body of water. It is not sitting on acreage. It is not fixed. It is untidy and it is small. Still, maybe I enjoy the challenge of trying to make this imperfection work for me. I am at least resigned to it until that time that this particular home can be given up and I find a new one. I continue to find new homes for thinking, new vantage points for engaging and accepting my home, my world, my place. I continue to make lists. I continue to breathe.
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