Today I am Writing: On Reading

Today I was sitting in a getting-more-crowded space, waiting for a recital I was accompanying to begin.  I had brought my book, and was reading.

I was reading a short story that at first I didn't understand, and then when I did, I didn't particularly like. When I finished, I looked up with a snort of "huh!" and suddenly realized that

--so absorbed had I been--

I had lost awareness that there were other people in the room.

I mean, in terms of awareness, I had: Absolutely. None.

Which, was disconcerting.

But also, caused me to appreciate the art of story.

Maybe I didn't like the plot, but the story itself must be a win.

Today I am Writing: On Falling Rocks

I was driving through the mountains today, and I saw a sign that said FALLING ROCKS.

Positioned at the side of the road as it was, directly under a wall of rock that was terrible in its massiveness, I thought: Is this sign supposed to make me feel better?

Like, "hey, these might kill you, but at least there is this sign" is an answer to the FALLING ROCK PROBLEM.

I was brought back to a moment in my childhood, when, driving through some mountain pass on our way to visit family or friends in upstate New York, I saw a similar rock wall, with the exact same sign at its base. The sign of this morning caused me to remember quite vividly that in that childhood moment I had a very distinct thought, and it was:

Shouldn't somebody do something about that?!

But what I really meant was: Adults are really quite incapable. You'd best watch out for your own self. Falling rocks are everywhere.

From Friday to Friday, 1

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]

Today I am Writing: On Pencils and Erasers

I have a container of pencils, sitting near my piano. Their purpose is for my note-making during the lesson-taking, so I have placed them closely to my seat.

It is a regular occurrence that a waiting child will come with great intent, knocking over anything standing in the way, to take a pencil for his or her own purposes.

(I cannot begin to tell you how many times a week I need to act on my superhero instincts in order to save myself or a chair or a child from complete and utter disaster, simply because said child is looking for a pencil.)

And frequently, what I hear is something like, "this pencil needs to be sharpened!" or, "this pencil needs a better eraser!"

They are an exacting breed, these children.

So, today, in five minutes of "please allow me to care for your needs," I sharpened all of the pencils. Every single one.

And onto my shopping list I added: Buy a pack of those little eraser caps.

Because isn't it some kind of truth-about-life, that the eraser always seems to wear out before the pencil is close to done?

(We make a lot of mistakes, but it doesn't mean we're finished.)

Today I am Writing: On Wallets and Worship

I started my day in the local cafe. I sat in the leather chair, in the corner, with my thoughts, my ipad, my journal, and my drink. I checked the email, I read the things I read. I wrote down the thoughts collected through the course of a restlessly sleeping (but there is healing happening) night. I pondered, I asked, I breathed.

People wandered in and out; some I knew, and some I did not. I nodded heads with a man wearing scrubs and carrying out a tray of drinks; I know him, I just don't know how. Across in the corner sat a friend I had lost touch with over this long semester, wrapped in a blanket shawl, working on her laptop; we set our calendars up to chat. Another young friend came with her backpack lightly hanging on her back; she sat down on the chair at my knee and I listened to her life update and smiled at the peace new in her eyes.

And then, the colleague entered, the one I respect, admire, consider friend though our paths rarely cross. As she unloaded her things at a table nearby, we exchanged the typical end of semester greeting: Are you done? Done. Me too. Phew.

I noticed her pick up her wallet, out of her bag, tuck it into her pocket to go buy her fare.

I don't know why it struck me that her wallet was just so her: Strong, solid, rectangular. Pink, but with a yellow edge.

And I don't know why I had a strange moment of wonder: Inside of that wallet, what would I find?

Would the cash be separated out, like mine, each category paying for a certain type of thing? Would it be laid out bills, pristine and even? Or folded ones, jumbled and jarring?

Was there even cash in there?

It made me think how every person in that room had their own wallet, their own way of going about things. It made me think that there are probably no two wallets alike, on this whole green earth. Which made me quiver with unthinkable joy, that there are no two people alike on this whole green earth at all. 

And if a wallet can turn into worship, I simply Wondered.

Today I am Writing: On Starbucks

This morning I was standing in front of a display case in my local Starbucks. Having gotten my car maintained (in this week of "welcome back to real-world-living"), I decided to maintain my morning get-into-the-office delay via an Americano, freshly made and gift-card paid.

I stood at the display case, holding a $60 coffee maker that had caught my eye and called me to itself, sleek and beautiful and "exactly what I needed!" until I realized that this was likely and simply an installment of my yearly "I am transitioning from semester to summer and hence want to purchase everything in sight in order to maintain some sort of belief that I can control my surroundings," and put the darn thing back.

But then, I returned to the display case, and stood looking at the variety of cold beverages and cheese sticks they had to offer. Suddenly, I was transported back 12 or so years, to a display case that looked exactly the same, but a) held cold sandwiches in triangulated plastic ware and b) existed in the very-much-not-here city of London, England.

For a moment, I could remember the texture of the egg salad sandwich I purchased there (as well as the shock that Starbucks in England sold food.) And I could call up the memory of sitting down to eat it, in that somewhat familiar place, before I explored a less than familiar city. That memory felt more real to me, somehow, than even the Americano waiting present minutes.

Maybe it was my younger self, reminding me to not settle for safety found in a sleek and beautiful coffee maker. Or maybe it was my younger self saying: Live a little, and get it.

Today I am Writing: On the Instincts of Weather

I checked the weather when I came home today, to see if it might rain.

The sky was cloudy, but I had a pond to finish cleaning, before rainwater has a chance to cover the muck not yet removed and mosquitoes have a chance to hatch their precious offspring.

I saw threat of thunderstorms later with a little timely window, so I pulled on my boots and my gloves and got myself to work.

Then, my friends came, for their piano time. The adult one and I stayed inside for Beethoven, while the child one came bounding in and out, eventually settling down at the table in the yard, all growing legs and limbs.

It was cloudy still, no rain. The wind though...the wind was picking up.

It blew the child one inside when it was her time. We worked on her recital song. I spoke in an entirely-made-up-but-gosh-she-loves-it accent, the whole entire lesson long. (There is no explaining how tiring this can be, unless you have also tried it.)

The adult one sat on the porch, as darkness gathered and tree limbs swept from side to side.

When we were through, were saying good-bye, she said: There's a tornado warning, you know, until 10 o'clock.

I didn't know; I never would have thought.

Mosquitoes are predictable, so are the limbs of the growing girl.
You can plan ahead for this.
But the instincts of weather require we know enough to read the signs.
Life becomes a balance, of these.