Night One Thousand and Two
In one incarnation of my ideal life, I write a lot. Every single day. It’s fulfilling because the sunlight steals in to slip over my skin and my chair is singularly comfy and I can make all the hot beverages I want all day long and I get paid handsomely for all of it.
When I get bored or stuck or my mind starts to wander and distract me like an itch that can’t quite be scratched, I go onto my blog and share some loosely interwoven thoughts with the whole wide world, often including visual aids to help people understand what I’m talking about (and because it’s more aesthetically pleasing).
I do all this for most of the morning and then take a break to empty my grouchy bladder and make a toasted-bread sandwich and smell the proverbial roses which are actually gardenias because they’re easier to care for and my thumb is rather un-green, really chartreuse at best.
I take a moment on my porch to absorb some inspiration from the strange and unusually regal birds flying overhead or the sound of the waves lapping onto the gold-flecked sanded shores that hem the border of my homestead, or the outrageous dialogue coming from the TV show my unsuspiciously reclusive neighbor is immersed in next door, and then I pad-foot my way back to my chair, my next hot beverage and my story to lay down more bricks in the form of typewritten pages.
Afterward, while there are still bits of glorious late afternoon sunshine remaining, I mosey on down to the cozy neighborhood watering hole for decidedly cooler beverages shared with a motley crew of found friends who are coming off a day of creative expression in their own right. We chat and laugh and share and prod each other’s mindscapes - mostly figuratively. We inspire, empathize, criticize, satirize, and energize each other’s existence into warm hearted communal goodness and then disperse in packs or pairs or selves to the next adventure.
This would be the grab-bag moment where anything goes as long as it requires a great deal more going than staying and there are more beverages – either hot or cold in deference to the nature of the particular adventure.
And at the right stop-action moment amidst all this swirlily satisfying activity, when the day finally slips on its somnolent attire and I find myself in perfect presence with the glow of gratitude for the lusciousness of the fullness of the blessings of my life, I spend the remaining decent into restful oblivion in total onehundredpercent connection with the being that we all get to be, and fall asleep wrapped in its-and-my perfect embrace which is more all-encompassing than I will ever have words for, though an earnest and hearty endeavor will be made by me all the same when my day begins anew.
I exit my verbal reverie with a long breath and my eyes regain focus on his face – his unnervingly impassive face. A long while stretches before us, and I can only assume he is deep in contemplation of this rather long winded response to his (admittedly) terse question: what is it you want.
I am determined to be patient though, and equally determined to keep my gaze steady on those liquid brown eyes studying me. If there is anything I’ve learned in this incarnation of my life it is firstly that good things are always, always worth the wait and secondly, one should never, under any circumstances, look a gift horse in the mouth. Not if you truly want your gift.
