I have mastered the art of doing nothing. Or at least, that’s what it looks like to the people who share my home. I have been sitting most of the day, relishing this Monday when I do not have to be up, moving, focused and productive; when I do not have to shower, pay attention to my clothing choices, put in contacts and don a mask. When it is okay to do things out of order and backwards and sometimes not at all.
What do they see? Mama in her chair, warm coffee cup cradled in her hands, gazing out the window.
What is really happening? Me, wondering if the tree that attracts so many woodpeckers this year is slowly dying and will need to be visited by an arborist who may, or may not, decide to forever alter our landscape.
What do they see? Mama doing dishes and making a fresh pot of coffee, music playing quietly to keep her company.
What is really happening? I am dancing to live music, completely absorbed in the energy that only live music can create. It is the best energy and cannot be found anywhere else. I’ve looked.
A few hours later? Mama on the couch, transfixed by the computer and a little oblivious to the gentle racket that surrounds her. Another cup of coffee sits nearby.
What is on the screen? Bukowski. Sweet, sweet Bukowski and his incredible ability to articulate the pain and loneliness of human existence, wrapped in words, lines, stanzas that transform that pain into art and connection.
A nap. Unnecessary for my not-really-tired-and-well-caffeinated body but since I can, I will.
A light dream, mostly directed by my conscious and not my subconscious, considering alternative paths that could allow for a change of our location, of our daily rhythms, of our life.
Monday afternoon and I resist the urge to regret the missed opportunities of this day. The sun is beginning to chase away winter’s return and I am still in my pajamas. Smaller voices beckon me to participate and I know that it is time to join the fray, wholeheartedly and with my full attention.