big white puffy clouds
another beautiful day here on the other central coast.
i think i can feel gills forming.
My mother’s immediate neighbors are an older couple that have a sweet little garden
that the husband lovingly tends. Yesterday when I came home he was gently removing tiny dead leaves from a potted plant on the window ledge. I’ve never seen such a tidy little garden. I see him sweeping the walkway that runs around the entire first floor here, at least twice a day. His outside shoes are cleaned and left to air on the bench outside their door. I imagine the inside of their little apartment is immaculate and orderly. Every dish, spoon, towel, pot and pan in it’s perfect place. Every stitch of clothing hung or folded into perfect rectangles in a high polished Regency dresser. Their days as orderly and clean as their apt and garden. I find myself entranced by them and have tried to strike up a conversation but he resists my overtures. Maybe he’s just slow to warm and open.
I am a lover of routine. I find comfort in it even though I understand that it can lead to a dull sort of sleepwalking through life. After the chaos of the last few years I’ve clung in vain to some version of routine. It’s an illusion, it’s ill and it’s for losers. We have no real control, and yet I cling to it, because it makes me feel like I’m in charge and why that should soothe me remains a mystery. I know that what I should be doing is learning how to bob and weave and lean and dive into uncertainty and doubt. Abandon hope and embrace whatever comes. Surrender.
If I figure out how to do that I’ll let y’all know.