Saturday, November 27, 2010
Here Is Saturday
I went all the way to the chicken coop this morning and the knee worked well. Okay, I am walking like an old, old woman but I am walking. And now comes the time when I have to remember that just because I CAN do something (yes! just like Cher and the thong-thing) doesn't mean I should. I am going to rest it again today, this old joint.
It got cooler last night after a day of on and off rain showers and the air again feels crisp. It's lovely, it's light. Perfectly luscious, in fact. I was sitting on the porch and I heard a sound I'd never heard before. I can't even really describe it. Perhaps like the rustling of very stiff black satin. The sound was traveling from west to east and then I heard the cries of birds, too, and huge flocks of them flew over and settled for a second in the trees in the back yard and then took off again immediately and it was as if I was underneath that skirt of that stiff black satin and there were layers and layers of petticoats, too.
The birds, as they rose up, were outlined against the bright sky and I couldn't tell a thing about them except for their shape. Perhaps they were crows. I think they may have been.
It was a wonder.
I feel as if everything I write the past few days has been so boring. My world, already smallish, has become even smaller as I have stayed in the house, nested here and there in it with pillows and blankets and ice. I read an entire New Yorker last night and when do I have the luxury of doing that? My old friend, David visited in the evening bringing two of his beautiful grown daughters, two of their children, and a son-in-law. It was happy chaos in the kitchen and we ate leftover salad and pasta and bread and some of Mr. Moon's smoked venison which was the very, very best venison I've ever eaten. I looked at David and said, "Who knew?" as the babies played with Owen's toys and ate bananas and his daughters beamed their beauty across the universe. Who knew, indeed, and the girls asked how we met and David and I laughed. The story is so long and so long ago and so life-altering and yet, really, now? Of what consequence?
Every and none, I would say.
Yes. We step here, we step there, we sing this song, we make decisions and each one as small and unimportant as the act of reading a magazine, as strange and mysterious as a flock of rustling birds and then, a life. Or rather, many lives.
No wonder we need to rest sometimes. No wonder there at all.
It is Saturday morning and it is amazingly quiet in Lloyd and if you drove through here, on the road in front of my house, you might look around and say, "I wonder who lives in these old houses under these big oaks? Do they sit on those porches? Do they live lives like mine?"
And the answer would be oh yes. And no.
And you would drive on and within three miles, you would have forgotten these houses under the oaks but we would still be here and so would you, traveling your journey as we travel ours from house to chicken coop, from kitchen to bedroom, from front door to back, all of us moving, even in stillness, even in quiet.