It's miraculously quiet here this morning. The semester of teaching over. The grant applications sent. The children at school or asleep in the bed upstairs. Which means, it's just me, this morning, at this kitchen table, with this cup of sweet and milky and bitter tea, with some books that are old friends, which I am pawing through in a lazy and breezy way, with a breezy and blousy heart I haven't known for a while. Too little in my life and I get lost, go crazy, head towards darkness. But these quiet, empty moments after the storm? They are startling in their perfection. In the way the windows are all thrown open. The way the sunlight is pouring down, kissing the slender pink blossoms on the peach tree, which may or may not have survived the frost. This is, I think to myself, what it would be like to be a poet. To wake each day with this kind of quiet, this kind of attention, this kind of reverent solitude, this tender heart, open-armed.
When I am sixty I imagine living like this. Oh the beautiful calm and self-love of all that gray.
And until then? I'll take these slivered panes of open sky, through which my rambunctious, speckled, unruly and ridiculously rich life is soon to come leaping.