Posted on Leave a comment

Quiet

Here in College Town USA, summers are quiet, and Sundays even quieter. My dogs and I can cross Broadway with almost no waiting on a Sunday, much as we did on any given day during 2020. Traffic is less, downtown sees fewer people, and stores are markedly less full. The slower pace and the quieter ambience are nice, for those of us who live here all year long and who don’t depend upon students for our livelihood.

In the next week or two, the buzz begins. Students come back to town, start moving into apartments and dorms, fill up the stores and roam around downtown, especially in the evening. We welcome them back, though, and there’s no denying that the added liveliness is contagious. It will soon be time for us all to absorb the seasonal changes that give the Midwest some of its charm. But right at first, it’s a little bit hard to lose that quiet time of summer.

Early mornings find me writing my Morning Pages, in bed. If the weather is nice enough for my windows to be open, I love listening to the quiet. As dawn unfolds, and sometimes before, I’ll hear a single bird begin to sing. Cardinal, usually, although I’ve learned that I sometimes mistake a wren, with its loud voice, for a cardinal. Now that’s just wrong. Clearly, I am no birder! I only know a few things.

Before long I hear my neighbor out front with her dogs, and maybe another dog walker chatting with her. And then the neighbor’s car pulling out of her driveway. I’m pretty sure I’ve already heard the high school marching band, practicing for the start of school. They are back on the job before the other students, and up and out early, with the birds. The sun rises higher in the sky and the town wakes up bit by bit. I love a slow morning!

Quiet is good for the soul, along with the hum of cicadas in the evening and the sounds of my neighbors, playing fiddle and guitar in their backyard. I love the combination of human and insect music, easily heard on these quiet evenings.

So now we get ready for the bustle and buzz of students, school, and traffic, the human parts of the changing seasons in a college town. Change is good. It helps us grow.

“Have you ever heard the wonderful silence just before the dawn? Or the quiet and calm just as a storm ends? Or perhaps you know the silence when you haven’t the answer to a question you’ve been asked, or the hush of a country road at night, or the expectant pause of a room full of people when someone is just about to speak, or, most beautiful of all, the moment after the door closes and you’re alone in the whole house? Each one is different, you know, and all very beautiful if you listen carefully.”― Norton Juster, The Phantom Tollbooth

“She liked the life she had. She loved habits. She craved a day with nothing in it, a long, quiet stretch of hours in the studio.”― Ann Brashares, Sisterhood Everlasting

“When you pay attention, you prop the door of your soul ajar to welcome the unexpected and the uncontrolled . . Paying attention is a habit forming mind-set that comes with repetition and with intention. You give yourself permission to “do nothing.” You create quiet spaces. You open a door.”― Cindy Crosby, Chasing Dragonflies

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. And if someone forwarded this one to you, you can sign up here to receive the letters right in your Inbox. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

Posted on Leave a comment

The East-Facing Window

I am an early to bed and early to rise kind of gal. One of the things I love about waking early is watching the sun rise each morning. Luckily, I have an upstairs bedroom with a pair of east-facing windows, so not only can I sometimes view the moon in the eastern sky at night but invariably I see the sun coming up.

While I do so enjoy the changing of the seasons, I can’t help but love the early rising of the sun best, so that at this time of year I’m happy to see it coming up earlier and earlier each day. One year I kept in a small appointment book a record of the rising and setting of the sun, as well as notes on seasonal things like my first notice of singing frogs and cicadas, sightings of various wildflowers and trees budding out, as well as leaves changing colors and first snow. I have wanted for several years to be able to know the first and last day of katydids’ and cicadas’ singing, but I’ve never quite managed to pin that down.

But here I’ve wandered. I think having an east-facing bedroom window is a beautiful thing. Even if the dawn is not spectacular every day, it is different each day and it marks a beginning. It’s lovely to watch the start of a brand new day.

“This is a wonderful day, I have never seen this one before.” – Maya Angelou

I have a goal–a dream, really–of building a deck on the east side of the house, as well. It would come off of the dining room with, ideally, French doors. Morning sun and evening shade in summer. Perfect! I imagine dinner parties spilling gracefully out to the deck on a balmy evening. Light laughter and ease. Watching the moon rise over the neighborhood. The floaty curtains blowing in with the breeze. Cicadas, katydids, crickets, and frogs serenading. Ahh.

Of course, this scenario does call for a rather larger dining room than I have, to accommodate those French doors and all of that spilling. Still. It’s a picture I have had in my mind since I bought the house in 1991. I’m feeling like a version of it will happen soon. And when it does, there will be a party.

As things stand right now, I do have my east facing bedroom, dining room, kitchen, and studio windows, from whose vantage point I can see and hear all of those lovely things. And though my bedroom is tiny, I would not want to give up that eastern view for more room.

“You have slept for millions and millions of years. Why not wake up this morning?” – Kabir

I hope you wake up tomorrow and say, as Anne Lamott’s grandson does, “This could be the best day ever!”If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website.

And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”
Posted on Leave a comment

A New Day

Comes another dawn

on a late November day

when the bare trees

display their essences

against a changing background

perhaps not spectacular this time

not one for the photographers

but one that gladdens the heart

with its arrival.

And the big voice I mistook

for a cardinal

is, I believe, a compact little wren

in its brown suit

making its voice heard

as if to declare It’s a new day

and this is my little world.

And I think, why not

start the day with a song

staking a claim for my world?

Why not call out, Hello, you!

Hello, world! I am here.

Its a new day and I am here.

What will I do with this day?

Sing.  Fly.  Sing again.

And love this day.

Posted on Leave a comment

Magic

Thanksgiving Day and my sweet black dog

wakes me just in time to see the miracle of

sunrise a stunning display of orange pink blue

on this morning, the dawn itself so ephemeral

that as I drift a moment or two, poof! the

brilliance has passed.  Left with what could

be termed normal if such a word applies to

anything as miraculous as morning, I rise

to make my tea and the dogs go out into

the yard as if no magic has occurred.

Posted on 3 Comments

Finding Out

Still and dark with only crickets for conversation

a pink pocket of light appears above the trees.

So something is happening after all.

Now comes another pink ribbon drawn

through the blue dress of sky followed by

another and another and the lightening.

Lovely dawn making its slow, inimitable way

into the town and across my windows.

Comes another day.  Holding what?

Holding what for us in its open palms?

We shall leave this room, my dogs and I,

and find out.

Posted on Leave a comment

Before Dawn

The penultimate day of a thing undertaken

dawns during the hour of that very thing

the most auspicious time the yogis say

for beginning an important venture being

the hour before sunrise and so here

we are poised ready for adventure

with great aplomb with great huge yawns

and with excellent intentions.

Posted on 2 Comments

Surpassing

And now a branch of the walnut tree

bobs just outside my window

its slender leaves dancing dappled

in the cool morning sun.

How can I leave this room just now?

For though other sights may be

grander, more sublime

breathtaking

just now in this moment

that particular green

that inimitable light

those perfect shapes

that graceful ballet

surpass All.

 

Posted on Leave a comment

Days Begin

A crazy cacophony of birdsong

happens, as it turns out, before dawn.

At least it is happening today and

my brain the human kind that

likes to find order

make assumptions

discover meaning

rest on comforting facts

line up reliable regularity

would like to assume that

this is how it is with birds

on every warm spring morning

still dark awaiting the smile of the sun.

And so now I can know that

days begin with a riot of singing!

How jolly!

Posted on Leave a comment

Four Sycamores

Pink orange coral ribbons cross

a lightening blue sky behind the stark black

chaos of bare trees and I wonder why

I am not up before dawn every day why

I am not pouring these colors those shapes

into my small brain for safekeeping

day upon day upon day why

I do not lie on my back in the frosty

grass gazing up at the black sky

with all its stars and its moon why

I do not keep myself in the small room

of four sycamores gathered together

there where they reach up courageously

higher than I could ever dare climb

why I am not there now why

I was not there ten minutes ago why

ever other things seem more pressing

more important more worthy somehow

easier to lose.