Listening for thunder and making lists
I stirred when his alarm sounded. The darkness of
the hours I do not normally see was strong. With just a bit of awake space, my
mind quickly began to fill in spaces of a running to do list, but finding room
was difficult, for the list was already long-- the rest of my life long.
Here is a short list of tasks which I strongly dislike: filling in forms, conducting too many phone calls with terrible hold music, making plans, scheduling anything, leaving my house three days in a row, and being assaulted by humidity. Lately, too many of my waking hours have been filled with all of the above. Just when it feels like I have a bit of reprieve, another phone call, and wait, also this.
I’m staying up later because sitting in a quiet house in the stillness of night sounds luxurious. I’m waking earlier, because I know there is fresh, hot coffee in the French press and I know there are a few moments before the noise of children.
I have left my home everyday this week. I’m doing it again today. Introvert levels are dangerously low, but there is a library and a free afternoon calling my name. A library is safe, because it’s filled with rows and rows of books and people who like or need books —and none of those people want to talk to me. Books are quiet. Books are friends. The library is calling, I must go.
My husband left for work when that darkness was still strong. The ability of that man to accomplish so much before the holy hours of sunrise is astonishing and baffling, but we all have our strengths. Just as he left, a serious thunderstorm arrived on the scene. I heard it on my window; I heard it through the monitor in the girl’s room, beating the sides of the house. Pit-Pat-Pit-Pat, a low restless rumble—my primary language. An invitation. And so…
I hopped out of bed at an unusually quick speed and poured every last drop of that gorgeous coffee into my favorite mug. We didn’t have a great deal of money on our honeymoon, but we splurged on a beautiful cabin tucked in the Smokey Mountains and we bought a pair of coffee cups. The honeymoon mugs are just as perfect today as they were almost nine years ago. OR… for those inclined towards actual numbers, eight years and ten months. I’m not that person. Why do you hate numbers so much, asked husband, last night. I’m not entirely sure that question still needs to be answered, I mean, why do you still ask me to look at a map and give you a logical answer? I just don’t know, but he always leaves enough coffee in the French press for me and he goes and conquers the darkness of early morning, so I’ll keep him.
Let’s see, where was I? Thunderstorm, coffee, nine years, hate numbers, no maps, coffee, love him. That sums up more than you might think.
I poured my coffee and accepted the invitation of quiet, rainy magic, to sit in the stillness, to drink strong, fresh coffee, and let my fingers dance across keys.
The thunder rumbles, steadily fading away, and we are invited to wait in the empty space, before the wild light slices the air. Science might suggest this proves the distance and location of a storm, but that’s unnecessary. The mystic in me hears a gentle call to be still, to linger in the unknown. To be small and then be shaken by the booming, electric earth.
The cycle repeats-- always with the stillness. The raining drenches everything it meets, the brown scorched grass, the swimming pools, the flower beds full of weeds, the toys that the children did not put away, the swimsuits left to dry in the sun. The rain saturates the earth, leaving it soft and overflowing. It brightens greens and softens browns. It awakens pinks and reds and yellows. It soothes the busy, rushing lists in my head and reminds me that my own well is dry and parched.
I eagerly accept the invitation and allow myself to be saturated. So, I mentally circle the one item that I really must do today. I begin a new list.
To Do:
This is the list of an artist, sure, make your own list about being a person who knows that the charade of the frenzied world is not our rest. If I must exist in this world that requires of us numbers, lines, appointments and going places, I shall do my best to endure. If I must not ignore the broken, despairing heart of humanity that bleeds deeper and deeper with each passing day, then I must listen to the thunder, put my fingers to the keys, and choose sitting in the quiet over staying asleep. I must create with my hands, whether dough, words or art, to combat all the things that beat against the fabric of our souls.
The rain falls. The thunder roars, I must not waste the stillness.
Here is a short list of tasks which I strongly dislike: filling in forms, conducting too many phone calls with terrible hold music, making plans, scheduling anything, leaving my house three days in a row, and being assaulted by humidity. Lately, too many of my waking hours have been filled with all of the above. Just when it feels like I have a bit of reprieve, another phone call, and wait, also this.
I’m staying up later because sitting in a quiet house in the stillness of night sounds luxurious. I’m waking earlier, because I know there is fresh, hot coffee in the French press and I know there are a few moments before the noise of children.
I have left my home everyday this week. I’m doing it again today. Introvert levels are dangerously low, but there is a library and a free afternoon calling my name. A library is safe, because it’s filled with rows and rows of books and people who like or need books —and none of those people want to talk to me. Books are quiet. Books are friends. The library is calling, I must go.
My husband left for work when that darkness was still strong. The ability of that man to accomplish so much before the holy hours of sunrise is astonishing and baffling, but we all have our strengths. Just as he left, a serious thunderstorm arrived on the scene. I heard it on my window; I heard it through the monitor in the girl’s room, beating the sides of the house. Pit-Pat-Pit-Pat, a low restless rumble—my primary language. An invitation. And so…
I hopped out of bed at an unusually quick speed and poured every last drop of that gorgeous coffee into my favorite mug. We didn’t have a great deal of money on our honeymoon, but we splurged on a beautiful cabin tucked in the Smokey Mountains and we bought a pair of coffee cups. The honeymoon mugs are just as perfect today as they were almost nine years ago. OR… for those inclined towards actual numbers, eight years and ten months. I’m not that person. Why do you hate numbers so much, asked husband, last night. I’m not entirely sure that question still needs to be answered, I mean, why do you still ask me to look at a map and give you a logical answer? I just don’t know, but he always leaves enough coffee in the French press for me and he goes and conquers the darkness of early morning, so I’ll keep him.
Let’s see, where was I? Thunderstorm, coffee, nine years, hate numbers, no maps, coffee, love him. That sums up more than you might think.
I poured my coffee and accepted the invitation of quiet, rainy magic, to sit in the stillness, to drink strong, fresh coffee, and let my fingers dance across keys.
The thunder rumbles, steadily fading away, and we are invited to wait in the empty space, before the wild light slices the air. Science might suggest this proves the distance and location of a storm, but that’s unnecessary. The mystic in me hears a gentle call to be still, to linger in the unknown. To be small and then be shaken by the booming, electric earth.
The cycle repeats-- always with the stillness. The raining drenches everything it meets, the brown scorched grass, the swimming pools, the flower beds full of weeds, the toys that the children did not put away, the swimsuits left to dry in the sun. The rain saturates the earth, leaving it soft and overflowing. It brightens greens and softens browns. It awakens pinks and reds and yellows. It soothes the busy, rushing lists in my head and reminds me that my own well is dry and parched.
I eagerly accept the invitation and allow myself to be saturated. So, I mentally circle the one item that I really must do today. I begin a new list.
To Do:
- Bake bread
- Re-read East of Eden
- Re-read my favorite book.
- Ignore all the social medias
- Take a walk
- Get to the water
- Get to the water
- Get me to the water!
- Read stories with my kids
- Write
- Drink more coffee
- Peruse cookbooks for new ideas
- Read poetry
- Sit alone in a library
- Go to the art museum
- Enjoy two hours of silence
- Open a sketchbook
- Pick up a paintbrush
- Turn on Alabama Shakes extra loud
- Listen to Coldplay in the rain
- Watch trees blow in the wind
- Listen for the thunder and wait in the stillness.
This is the list of an artist, sure, make your own list about being a person who knows that the charade of the frenzied world is not our rest. If I must exist in this world that requires of us numbers, lines, appointments and going places, I shall do my best to endure. If I must not ignore the broken, despairing heart of humanity that bleeds deeper and deeper with each passing day, then I must listen to the thunder, put my fingers to the keys, and choose sitting in the quiet over staying asleep. I must create with my hands, whether dough, words or art, to combat all the things that beat against the fabric of our souls.
The rain falls. The thunder roars, I must not waste the stillness.
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