I love those moments when time seems to clear a space. The sound of my furnace brings it on. The sky is still overcast in the morning, everything else is quiet.
Doesn’t seem that I need to prepare, or clear away anything myself. A basket of laundry sits on the floor to my right, a bunch of clothes is still in the dryer from last night. The large cast iron skillet needs washing, as does my stovetop, dreadfully.
I have by no means finished Christmas shopping.
Comfort matters. The cushion behind my back is well-positioned, I’ve rested my feet on a Moroccan pouf at a nice angle, my ratty cotton zip-up sweatshirt keeps my neck warm. This all seems so quotidian but it matters.
I can hear my husband breathing.
I suppose it’s the joy of non-lonely solitude. The grace of paying attention to the time, patting each moment as it goes like a sleek cat passing. You can feel bones under the fur, linked, moving.
I know it’s silly, but I feel small ecstasy even in a sigh.
I never really understood all that stuff about nirvana, despite its popularity when I was a teen. But when time seems to breathe in, and lets me continue to breathe out, and in, and out again, words like hallelujah come to mind.
I know you guys are out there. I know you’ve all got lives, complex lives. It’s amazing to me that you read these words I type out in the morning. I imagine you at your tables, on the street, in the air, and I wish, I hope, if I were magic I’d make it true, that you get one moment of quiet and generous solitude. Today. Tomorrow.
They fade, these lacunae. That sense of glory, it passes and the crows start up and no one has washed the dirty pans. I don’t feel repaid for anxiety and grief and rages and drudgery. More like if I could just raise up a little higher, I’d see us all glowing in light that — here — only shows through pinpricks on a Saturday morning.
Have a wonderful weekend.