Do you hear the soft pulse
the purr of the morning;
the heat it crackles in spurts,
are the houseplants bothered at all?
These walls must have layers of absorbed music in them; caked in; packed on; but not this year.
This has been the year-of-quiet in this house. Mellow as tea steam.
I find comfort in the sounds of the dryer- banging around in the basement; the sound of warmth.
I find comfort in the sound of the neighboring, tall bamboo- stalks spanking in the wind; the sound of wild. I’m far from the ocean, but can draw this sound-comfort; hearing it’s rhythm where ever I go. My heart’s sound-twin.
What a lucky gal is me.
These days the birds have a lot to say. We live together now. I listen, trying to distinguish their calls & changes. Thus far I am still but a semi-useless human; unrefined in skills of decoding. Impatient & curious.
They make a lot of love. More than me.
Catching up is on my list-of-hopefuls.
The great majority of my afternoons hold murmurs from the speakers as I work with my hands, teaching me things I never knew or hadn’t understood well enough. I have submitted my mind to the Adult-School-of-Random-Education via strangers with jingles & hopefully diligent notes. I take my chances. My trust is 50/50.
My fantasies are desert-tied. I like to think of lizard bellies pressing against the screens of my window- me- on the other side, sleepily brushing my teeth in the morning, staring out at the pink blue morning horizon dotted with ocotillo, sage brush, pepperweed and other vegetative spirits with volatile oils that smell of perpetual rain when challenged with the weight of fingertips. I like to imagine red brown clay dust covering the tips of all my shoes. I like to picture casually engaging with desert people who tend very old cactus gardens. The countless dry, sun worn abandoned houses in my future beckon.
The Pacific Northwest is green of all variants. I will always remember it for this- no matter where I go. Always thank it for this. Regions can be thanked. There is nothing too big for a blessing. Nothing too small.
This is where I am now- up where I’m portable-heater-and-hot-beverage-reliant; forgetting my hoody makes me feel vulnerable & a few degrees further from happy. I have great fortune not to tend to addiction but these frosty February temperatures bring me close.
How I long to find new colors of feathers & old pottery on the ground; to forgo my woolens; to walk outside & have comfort wrap around my skin; to tend to tomatoes as many times a year as possible; to have the soft silence of a new ecosystem reveal it’s own life-pulse. And tap in.
And take in the purr of the morning.
And know the houseplants too- are cozy.
Pigeon Heart Ponderings 