A Day In A Life
It's summer.
The morning is cool, and I wake long before night's end. I wander from nightlight to nightlight, and I wait. Soon enough, just before dawn, I can hear the birds fill the air with a bedlam of chirps and cheeps and whistles. The repetition and mixture of sound is disharmonious, sometimes even unnerving, but I expect it. I cherish it. Silence would be a more frightening prelude to the day, like waking to a world of space without air, to a vacuum of dire proportions, to life in a bell jar.
Every morning finds the sun staining the darkness and transforming the night sky into a watery wash of colour over the city below me. After years of watching sunrise after sunrise, I never tire of watching it one more time. Each breaking dawn is a little different from the others. Some a flood of reds and yellows. Others a blend of orange and gold. Always within a widening blue frame.
Breakfast is slow, methodical, a bowl of cereal as I look out over the world slowly creeping into motion. Coffee, rich and strong, mixed with a weak sigh. Something missing or something I miss. Either way, a moment of some sentimentality. Nostalgia, maybe. You and you and you. So hard to find these days. It's sad to watch things dissipate, sorrowful to see friends fall away.
A steamy shower, followed by morning chores. Cleaning and straightening the bed. Picking up where the night left off. Remembering something to do and then not doing it. A lapse into laziness. A surrender into the quiet of living alone. It's not remarkable how much I enjoy the solitude, but it feels remarkable.
By noon, the day grows hot as the sun climbs to its zenith and beats irrepressibly down on the world below. A book, a bottle of water, and a journey to the pool, where I read and listen to the chatter of women lost in gossip. I hear only snippets of their conversations. I wonder if I should be listening at all, but I do. I listen.
I read and lose myself in the other world of some writer's imagination. It is intriguing to cut one's way into the lives of imaginary people with imagined hopes and dreams. At times, I find them preposterous, and other times, I almost wish I were there with them.
The buzz of the afternoon heat becomes overwhelming. The air gets heavy and languid, and my eyes tire and forsake me. I drift from consciousness into a half-sleep, and wake with a start when someone dives into the pool with a sudden scream of delight. I squint through the bright light and watch for only a brief moment. Then I rouse myself from my lounge chair and make my way here.
Where I write. Where words spill onto the computer screen from uneven thoughts. One moment, something joyful. The next moment, a dark consideration. Poetry and stories. Words and more words. As if the ability to form them into something whole and meaningful validates my very existence. As if what I write is important. But to whom? Who is reading through the leaves of my inspiration and the blank spaces of my exhaustion?
The night returns too soon. An early dinner. Quick and uninteresting. A cold glass of iced tea with a twist of lime at a friend's apartment, idle conversation, and then home to make some phone calls.
Voices reach out to me from across the miles, reassuring voices telling me the day's news, but more importantly confirming that I am still here. Still alive under a slow-rising, hazy moon, still alive to watch the night blanket the world in dark comfort. Still here in the languid quiet that bookends the day, until I am suddenly longing for sleep, and wondering if there will be days and nights enough for all the promises and dreams that I have yet to keep.
It's summer.
The morning is cool, and I wake long before night's end. I wander from nightlight to nightlight, and I wait. Soon enough, just before dawn, I can hear the birds fill the air with a bedlam of chirps and cheeps and whistles. The repetition and mixture of sound is disharmonious, sometimes even unnerving, but I expect it. I cherish it. Silence would be a more frightening prelude to the day, like waking to a world of space without air, to a vacuum of dire proportions, to life in a bell jar.
Every morning finds the sun staining the darkness and transforming the night sky into a watery wash of colour over the city below me. After years of watching sunrise after sunrise, I never tire of watching it one more time. Each breaking dawn is a little different from the others. Some a flood of reds and yellows. Others a blend of orange and gold. Always within a widening blue frame.
Breakfast is slow, methodical, a bowl of cereal as I look out over the world slowly creeping into motion. Coffee, rich and strong, mixed with a weak sigh. Something missing or something I miss. Either way, a moment of some sentimentality. Nostalgia, maybe. You and you and you. So hard to find these days. It's sad to watch things dissipate, sorrowful to see friends fall away.
A steamy shower, followed by morning chores. Cleaning and straightening the bed. Picking up where the night left off. Remembering something to do and then not doing it. A lapse into laziness. A surrender into the quiet of living alone. It's not remarkable how much I enjoy the solitude, but it feels remarkable.
By noon, the day grows hot as the sun climbs to its zenith and beats irrepressibly down on the world below. A book, a bottle of water, and a journey to the pool, where I read and listen to the chatter of women lost in gossip. I hear only snippets of their conversations. I wonder if I should be listening at all, but I do. I listen.
I read and lose myself in the other world of some writer's imagination. It is intriguing to cut one's way into the lives of imaginary people with imagined hopes and dreams. At times, I find them preposterous, and other times, I almost wish I were there with them.
The buzz of the afternoon heat becomes overwhelming. The air gets heavy and languid, and my eyes tire and forsake me. I drift from consciousness into a half-sleep, and wake with a start when someone dives into the pool with a sudden scream of delight. I squint through the bright light and watch for only a brief moment. Then I rouse myself from my lounge chair and make my way here.
Where I write. Where words spill onto the computer screen from uneven thoughts. One moment, something joyful. The next moment, a dark consideration. Poetry and stories. Words and more words. As if the ability to form them into something whole and meaningful validates my very existence. As if what I write is important. But to whom? Who is reading through the leaves of my inspiration and the blank spaces of my exhaustion?
The night returns too soon. An early dinner. Quick and uninteresting. A cold glass of iced tea with a twist of lime at a friend's apartment, idle conversation, and then home to make some phone calls.
Voices reach out to me from across the miles, reassuring voices telling me the day's news, but more importantly confirming that I am still here. Still alive under a slow-rising, hazy moon, still alive to watch the night blanket the world in dark comfort. Still here in the languid quiet that bookends the day, until I am suddenly longing for sleep, and wondering if there will be days and nights enough for all the promises and dreams that I have yet to keep.
Welcome to another day in the life of someone who cares about what you have to write and read and share with others, and, of course, you. In this the fourth quarter of my life, I'm convinced that each day can be a better day than the day before, and each day can bring many blessings, with a few hiccups thrown in for good measure.
ReplyDeleteThat's all I've got for today ... xxx
Thanks for the support ... with respect to blogs, times have certainly changed, but we carry on. Some day, my grand-kids will read all this, I hope, and that makes it all worthwhile ...
DeleteSo descriptively written I was right there with you
ReplyDeleteI thought I heard you raiding the refrigerator ... ;o}
DeleteSo, THAT'S what it's like, to be retired ... Amazing. Enjoy your life. I enjoyed this peek into a day of your life.
ReplyDeleteYes, it's a good gig ... hope you're joining us soon ...
Deleteit sounds wonderful and I am so glad you have those voices to reassure you :) and the glorious sunrises...
ReplyDeletethis morning I went to the beach at 8:30 am and was back at the pool swimming laps at 10:30, I hope to do the same tomorrow...Wed. it's back to work, which includes the pool and two handsome young men...lucky me!
I like the handsome young men scenario for you ... ;o}
Delete