Id happens

Sometimes I just want to write about nothing.  Well, not quite nothing.

Rather, I want to write about simple, mundane, everyday things, like waiting for take-out orders at the sushi place around the corner.  Or like, walking to the grocery store in a red sweater pulled over a loose, floral dress; the sound of sandals over pebbles on the sidewalk; the smell of the earth that alludes to the rain; the relationship between the wind and trees as I perceive it—you know, that yes-yes feeling when someone rustles your leaves.

I walked “home” with a paper bag filled with things like canned lima beans and tuna, another bag filled with vegetables and held snug against my hips.  When I got there, I took out my keys, opened the screen, unlocked the door, and said, hello, to Maggie as I walked across the hardwood floors to the kitchen. I didn’t unpack the groceries, but instead, walked over the coffee table and sat down at my computer to type this paragraph.

I suppose these so-called mundane tasks become less ordinary when they are occurring somewhat outside the context of your everyday life.  Fab and I are house-sitting for Enise while she visits her fiancé in England.

Her house is charming with its vibrant orange walls, abundance of candles, and what I consider, an animated and eclectic set of dishes.  It is only a short walk from the grocery store and downtown and the hostel where I have been staying.

This morning, at work, Jimmy asked, “Are you enjoying playing house?”

My response is like the wind in the trees, yes-yes. It’s a good game, waking up to our bodies carrying little cat paws to the window.  The cat, Maggie, stands eagerly on her hind legs when pebbles are poured into her food bowl.  She lies lovingly on our sweaters and bags and glares indignantly when we stop stroking her furry body.

It feels so good to get away.  Like the wind in the trees.

Yes-yes.

Some nights, I’m too tired to gaze at the glow in the dark stars on the ceiling.  My eyes close so completely I’m not aware of the light on in the bathroom or the Motel DuBeau sign shining through the curtains.  The train goes by distant as a lullaby.  Other times, it moves through the center of the room.  I sense it with my eyes closed as it shakes the walls to unknown destinations. The sound of the horn pulls me along. It still doesn’t really disrupt my slumber. I just know it’s there. It’s just a reminder. I don’t forget where I am. My entire body is here right now, and the sensation is liberating, stimulating, electrifying, I don’t know what.

One week ago, I took a Greyhound bus up the mountain. One week ago.  It’s been beautiful; sunshine or thunderstorms. So much has happened—or maybe not so much, but I feel more aware of the world. The days don’t last long enough and I feel each one overflowing into the next.

We piled people and picnic stuff into a truck one night, drove to Snowbowl passed the controlled burns, through the smoldering forests, to watch the sunset beyond layers of clouds and mountains. Fabio took pictures of my ankle stretched out in the grass and of the craters on the moon.   We feasted on dry salad, avocado halves, pudding cake and someone decided to pour vodka into a bowl of watermelon. They closed their eyes and licked their fingers and everything grew dim and beautiful.

I sat in the kitchen, writing, watching a boy in bare feet with calf tattoos making jam.  Mashing the fruit in a large pot suspended over a blue flame before it became pink glop in a large, silver bowl. It tasted less like strawberries & bananas and more like pure delicious…on bread.

There was a late-night to Denny’s, situated at the edge of town, everything surrounding it deserted at that hour.  We sat in the same booth as we did almost four years ago.  Hot chocolate with whipped cream, grand slam breakfasts.

There have been evenings at a Chinese restaurant, huddled in a booth over soup and talk and fortune cookies.  I saved one, it said, “Put all your unhappiness aside, life is beautiful, be happy.”

I’ve been meeting old friends for talks over strong coffee or lunch, splitting pecan rolls or eating pita, discussing our lives, the people in them, people who are no longer in them and glad that’s over, crummy jobs, and the bric-a-brac of everyday life and trying to find happiness.

There are so many little , simple things that have an exquisite quality about them…cooking brown rice, the smell of the sun on skin, the way the bottoms of my feet are dirty, walking down a sidewalk with a yoga mat slung over my shoulder, the way certain eyes fall on me & the way that a blush burns a little.