And so it is tonight. After last night's wild ride with the boys and spaghetti and The Rolling Stones and dancing and bathing and sleeping and not-sleeping and whatever happened in that chicken coop, the quiet here tonight is a great balm to my soul.
I got quite a bit done today and have felt, despite my lack of sleep, very, very good. And when I had gotten the laundry done and the kitchen cleaned up and the sheets on the bed changed and everything made tidy again, I laid down on that tidy bed and read a few chapters of Alexander McCall Smith's The Right Attitude Towards Rain, which is part of his Isabel Dalhousie series. There is something so incredibly soothing (and yes, I overuse that word, it is one of my favorites) about the writing of Mr. McCall Smith. His characters, especially his female characters, have a rich inner life wherein they ponder the Great Questions and this resounds with me. I, too, think about everything way too much, and although unlike Isabel, I have no degree in philosophy, I try to weigh everything in accordance with more than one scale. Like Isabel, I try to be kind but frequently fail. I aspire to apply, as Isabel does, moral ethics to my life but well, we are human as well as angel. We are devil, as well as god. We are meat, as well as spirit.
And so I read a few of of those chapters and then I closed my eyes and took a most heavenly nap of perhaps an hour, the landline completely unplugged, the room dark and cool.
When I got up I had some coffee and then I took my real camera outside to take some pictures because I never do that anymore. The iPhone is good enough, and really, for my needs, better than that, but sometimes it is good to take the time to stop and focus, to look with a more discerning eye, to give literally and figuratively more weight to what I am doing, although honestly, I cannot say that the pictures are much better. I am no photographer.
But here is what I saw, here is what I recorded on a Saturday evening on the last day of August, 2013 in Lloyd, Florida.
The red passion flower, finally and at last, blooming after an afternoon shower.
Our orphan. I have no idea if this chick will survive without her mama. Mr. Moon, as I said, took care of the gaps in her coop and so perhaps she will be safe. I have no idea if a chicken can suffer from trauma. Perhaps. I know for a fact that she is no longer making her here-I-am-mama peeping noise. But there she is. He is? I hope she lives long enough for us to know whether she is hen or rooster. And then another long, long set of years. But it's not up to me. We shall do the best we can and that is all we can do, as I so oddly said last night of her mother who probably saved her life.
The outside Buddha with a red impatiens. Remember when Owen used to love to move him around and called him "Buddhey"?
The golden orb weaver who lives above the porch swing with her mate. You really can't get a perspective on how large she is. Large. Very, very large.
The fallen tree in the back yard. And again- you can't get perspective. It is larger than large. It is huge.
The cones of the Pinecone Lilies. Soon they will turn scarlet.
The sky to the west. This may be the face of god or it may be a simple miracle of our planet. Or both.
And now, the pictures following were indeed taken with the iPhone.
Another miracle- the miracle of the Shape Of The Egg. This is what my hens laid today. Each hen lays her own distinct egg and they are all beautiful to me.
Part of what lies atop my kitchen hutch which has been with me since 1979. It occurred to me, when I took the picture, that at least three of the things you see in that picture were sent to me as gifts as a direct result of this blog. And the red pitcher belonged to my Lynn.
And that's all. It's Saturday night and I am sipping an icy martini because no one needs me and I am not going anywhere and as a friend of mine used to say, "If you can't drink alone, who CAN you drink with?" and I am going to cook my little piece of salmon with lemon juice and dill. It is so quiet that I can hear myself think, although when I go into the kitchen to cook, I will turn on Prairie Home Companion because Garrison Keillor's voice is as soothing as that of Isabel Dalhousie's and the news from Lake Woebegon is not unlike the news from Lloyd. Always the same and yet eternally changing, sometimes funny and sometimes tragic, often joyful, frequently absurd.
A cardinal is perched in the camellia beside the bird feeder, chip-chirping, the sun is setting, and I am alone but as far from being lonely as it is possible to be.
And I am happy.