Today I went in to the bookstore, Windows, where I worked last year and where, starting next week, I'll do another stint, though part-time this time. I got to "try it on" again; my boss and co-worker had held back a few book orders for me to process (they insisted I clock in, too). After six months off I'm rusty, but it all started to come back.
There is an aroma to the bookstore, a flavor, a silent hum. I have missed it.
My view for so long has been this space, this home in suburbia offering its hymn to the blessings of soil-building efforts by our dear son. Westley the cat enjoys the yard, too. He and I wait in warmer breezes for Tim to ride here after his evening-ending shift, no longer in February's uneasy darkness. The woodstove is resting, but Tim's work on the driveway, chopping next year's burnable fuel, never sleeps.
Yesterday found grandson Edmund and me in welcome conversation, his voice so bright: "How are you, Grandmom?" Their view, Victoria reminds me, is of the most densely populated US state. And in that space she and Alex train to become foster parents, to provide music and flavors for a young soul needing love's absorption, the warmth and light of family.
I used to proclaim, eons ago, that I would like to birth one baby and adopt the rest. I didn't, but our kids are on the road to doing so.
Today I practiced parking five blocks from the bookstore, as I did last year into December, in a meter-free residential neighborhood. There were, in a couple spaces today, bedrolls near the sidewalk. One traveler carried a pack down an alley. I've spoken to her at church, but today we missed connecting. I continued walking, attempting to smile at people while musing in my reverie about working again at something I enjoy.
Later I turned homeward, passing the river bike path. Last Saturday evening I had strolled there. After nabbing a shot of a familiar feathered friend that evening, I eyed a tattooed man sitting on a cooler, bowing his head and smoking. "Hello," I said in passing, tentatively, wishing to make up for moments I have let slip past, during my own reveries, seeking my own life and space and not caring. This moment the man lifted his bright gaze toward me. Smiling, he offered warmth and light and music all together.
There is an aroma to the bookstore, a flavor, a silent hum. I have missed it.
My view for so long has been this space, this home in suburbia offering its hymn to the blessings of soil-building efforts by our dear son. Westley the cat enjoys the yard, too. He and I wait in warmer breezes for Tim to ride here after his evening-ending shift, no longer in February's uneasy darkness. The woodstove is resting, but Tim's work on the driveway, chopping next year's burnable fuel, never sleeps.
Yesterday found grandson Edmund and me in welcome conversation, his voice so bright: "How are you, Grandmom?" Their view, Victoria reminds me, is of the most densely populated US state. And in that space she and Alex train to become foster parents, to provide music and flavors for a young soul needing love's absorption, the warmth and light of family.
I used to proclaim, eons ago, that I would like to birth one baby and adopt the rest. I didn't, but our kids are on the road to doing so.
Today I practiced parking five blocks from the bookstore, as I did last year into December, in a meter-free residential neighborhood. There were, in a couple spaces today, bedrolls near the sidewalk. One traveler carried a pack down an alley. I've spoken to her at church, but today we missed connecting. I continued walking, attempting to smile at people while musing in my reverie about working again at something I enjoy.
Later I turned homeward, passing the river bike path. Last Saturday evening I had strolled there. After nabbing a shot of a familiar feathered friend that evening, I eyed a tattooed man sitting on a cooler, bowing his head and smoking. "Hello," I said in passing, tentatively, wishing to make up for moments I have let slip past, during my own reveries, seeking my own life and space and not caring. This moment the man lifted his bright gaze toward me. Smiling, he offered warmth and light and music all together.
2 comments:
Dear Deanna, a vast span, an arc, of peace pervade this posting. Thank you. More peace to you, pressed down and overflowing.
I appreciate this, Dee, because it's a reminder for days when peace seems elusive! Peace to you, too.
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