Can an ordinary person feel like a round mosaic tabletop with pieces gone missing? Corny metaphor, but true. Its the way I feel today. Don't ask my why. I'm not sure. Edward Abbey (whose
Desert Solitaire I'm rereading) wrote about this time of year,
...whirlwinds from which issue no voice or word except the forlorn moan of the elements under stress. Can I claim to be one of those elements? Blame it on the wind? To change the mood I ate some good organic dark chocolate with almonds and sea salt with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon. It didn't help.
Driving to town in the afternoon after a long morning of work, all the car windows open, a bouquet of scents invade my senses and fill the air. Lilacs, wild plum, apple blossoms, cherry. It's sprung. Spring. At last. I go to the cafe after a few errands, take out my notebook and write. About the Italian soda shot with Italian mango syrup. Cold and refreshing, a bubbly golden elixir. I take a picture of it. How silly.
Keep writing. Maybe work some things out. Find out who I am today. Wind ruffles my pages, and the nearby fountain's watery sounds begin to soothe my nerves. I know the koi are beneath in the water, but I don't bother them and they don't bother me.
I think about an expansive handbag I saw yesterday and think I want. Then I remember all the bags at home and how I'm thinking minimalism again and they're going to the chic consignment shop in Santa Fe next week. An attractive 40ish couple at the next table, not really a couple, but with the potential, carefully approach each other in conversation. He's talking a blue streak, occasionally singing along with background music, she's paying attention, maybe just a bit glazed over, but not enough to turn him off. He invites her to karaoke night at the local cantina, she says no. I keep writing, snapping pictures randomly. Whatever my eye and the light catches. Asparagus fern. I haven't owned one in decades. They used to adorn my kitchens. I don't care anymore. They seem kind of sloppy as plants go.
Pen glides over the paper. I feel restless. But the moving pen infers that something worthwhile is happening, until I read a few paragraphs back and all illusion of worthiness dissipates. A woman at the table behind me is on her cellphone selling apples! She's telling whoever is on the other end to separate the bad ones from the good ones and don't toss them away. I try not to get tossed away. Can I stretch her practical advice to fit my life today? Don't toss away the bad apples, just bag them up separately until they can be picked up and taken away...
Wind blows through the open doors in wavelike eddies. White petals drift in like surf bubbles. Zephyrs ruffle my hair like some invisible power playfully mussing a child's hair - or the fur of a dog. I can handle whatever comes along. Thich Nhat Hahn says, take a breath, take two breaths - the problem will not seem so important anymore.
