There isn't very much happening right now. There is this silence, that isn't deafening -- a kind of pause, before life starts up again. I am not writing today, and I am not working much either. This afternoon I talked online with a small group of students about Haruki Murakami. Nothing earth-shattering happened, but it was a pleasing exchange. Today someone recommended a book. I went through the mail, and brought my husband a bagel. My daughter is sitting and drawing and writing. We are not talking. My husband wanted to eat by himself in his office. That felt fine.
Sometimes less is more, and sometimes, nothingness feels full. Last night it rained, and my husband said "can you hear it raining?" I couldn't so I stepped out of our bedroom door; we have a door now that opens on to the backyard. Our backyard isn't anything special, but I stood in the doorway and heard the rain. I'd heard it before. I will hopefully hear it again. But this time, I heard the silence between the raindrops, and in the space between the water, there was a sense of arrival on the edge of something that is beyond nothing -- where all opposites meet, coalesce and transform.
On Plates
Texasware
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