I’m having trouble writing. My morning pages are non-existent and posting here falls off my radar (that’s what I get for gloating).
What I can tell you is that I took this photo while walking the dog. A walk that should’ve been 20 min but turned into 40. A walk that took me out into the neighborhood during dinner hour. Evening, the light hanging on so long these days.
Which, if I think about it, has thrown me off completely. I feel like I can’t sleep, our bedroom’s east-facing windows are a flick of a switch spotlight at 5:30am. All day, I’m unsure what the hour is exactly, and I always think it’s 5pm when it’s 7pm.
I let the dog lead so I don’t have to think. Every day I’m thinking and typing and talking and leading so much. I crave quiet. I want a blank space.
I keep seeing the color periwinkle – in the flowers, in the sky. Lavender blue.
My therapist points out that I put a lot of pressure on myself. I know it, but I don’t know how to stop. “I strive without knowing I am striving,” Kira writes in Hungry Ghosts of Not Good Enough. I understand.
Even as I write this, H is asking what I’m doing, when I’m coming to bed. He whistles scales, plays a game on the iPad, takes the dog out again. I feel guilty I’m sitting in the glow of the computer screen again, wishing instead I went to bed hours ago.
On my walk there is a woman singing opera in her home. At first, I think it’s a recording, mingling in with the baseball game in Spanish coming from a neighboring home. But no, it is a live voice, with pure tremolo and arching melodies, inching higher and higher. I am reminded about reading Bel Canto. It was recently, but for the life of me, I can’t recall when.
I am struck by the singing, the soft temperature of the air, the way the dog doesn’t pull to move me along. I listen. And I make a note, to come back here and tell you this small story, of wandering my neighborhood, of stepping away from the striving, of hearing music and being more in this world.
Happy Thursday xo