I sit here, writing on the screened porch of my parent’s house. While the shell-shock of my exodus from Albuquerque has begun to be only a memory, there is still the sense of Holiday. I ought to be getting on with the business of my life, progressing, planning, moving forward. But beyond interviews for jobs that seem to lead nowhere and writing for other people, that doesn’t appear to be on the docket for my life at this point. Therefor, I will make the most productive use of my time that I can, which involves soaking in the palpable stillness of a late May afternoon.
This is a protected space, saturated with the energy of my mother. For those of you who have never met her, which will be most of you reading this right now, she is a person who taught me the value of stillness. Close to the earth, her presence is one that calls to mind growing things–plants, small birds, the moment at dusk when the mirror of the marsh water reflects the softest aspect of the evening sky and tree frogs begin their chorus. There is a deep peacefulness I associate with her, so that, in all my travels, whenever I would witness a similar quality of quietude, of settled, unfurled silence, she was also there. In that, I found the patience to be still, to rest, to be wholly in the moment.
I’d like to believe that some part of her, of who she is, is carried with me and that others perceive it. Now that I have returned to her space, even if it is only a temporary stop-over, I am more aware of it than ever. The thick, green and golden light of late afternoon, the scent of roses and honeysuckle, and the voice of the wind amongst the trees mingling with those of birds busily going about their springtime routines–all that motion and sound seems only to deepen the sense of profound stillness. It is as if, a tightness within my soul–something that functioned to keep all that was moist and delicate about my being protected and whole while I was in a space of emotionally arid apartness–has begun to relax, to send out tentative shoots.
I sit here watching a glass of tea sweat in the shade of the porch. Slow, glistening drops of water form, swell, and break to run down the slick wet curve of the outside of my tea glass. But I think, too, that this is a subject for another entry. Perhaps, related to humidity, I will say that moist air carries sound differently. Perhaps that also is a function of this rich, deep peace this place offers me. I bask in it, in the sight of immense trees and a multitude of green, growing things. Here, the shadows are not merely a respite from the heat of sunlight, but also from the crushing force of being seen. There is a healing in that secretness that I had quite forgotten, so long was I away from it.