The sun is bright through the window, and I’m in a warm spot at a wooden table, in a small bakery I came across this morning, on my wanderings through the city streets. I like watching people go by, wearing light jackets for the first time this year. I like the smell of bread, and freshly made rolls, sugar.
I sit back in my chair and close my eyes, feeling how tired I am after a bad nights sleep, (I blame it on a mosquito that came into my room last night). I felt a bit troubled in general though, and I tossed and turned until I finally had to get up at the break of dawn. But I love mornings, without them I feel like I’m running after the day without never really catching up with it.
I want to feel peace, but my anxiety lingers. I try to look at it, what does it want?
I watch a brown sparrow grab a crumb of bread, watch the sun on the walls of the shop across the street, a white wooden building with straw baskets displayed on the cobblestone walkway. A knitted sweater hangs on each side of a dark green door, or is it grey, black? I can’t seem to tell.
More people come through the morning grows older. A woman in a leather jacket, sunglasses and a large black purse ordering a brown paper bag of something. A man taking his coffee and sweet roll outside. A sparrow hops expectantly onto his table, it stays for a few seconds, being ignored by the man, and then chased away as someone sits down with a croissant of sorts.
I have someplace to be in less than an hour, before then I’ll explore the city some more.
Why do I feel like a child whose mother has abandoned her? I feel the same anxiety I had as little girl, realizing I couldn’t find my mom in the big store, which really wasn’t that big. I remember my heart racing, fear tightening my chest. I feel a little like that now. Why can’t I relax? What is this horrible thing I’m afraid will happen?
Then I remember to not resist time, not resist change, to flow with the moment as it melts into the next. Can I find some intimacy with my anxiety, my fear? Maybe I can befriend it, just look at it, accept that it’s there, and try to understand it. Maybe then it will loosen its grip on me.
I want to develope faith, faith that I’m held, that I don’t have to control everything, manage it all alone. I don’t think I’m alone.
I want slow mornings, long moments of sipping hot tea and staring out the window.
On this Sunday when I’m supposed to sleep in, I get up early, and here I am in my robe, looking out on mountains tipped with gold, and a silver lake glittering faintly in the morning light. The sky is already taking on a shade of baby blue, and the birch trees outside my window have covered their branches in tiny green leaves. Spring has sprung.
Windflowers are on the table in front of me, white with a center of gold. They remind me of the place I grew up, that used to be my home.
In spring the hills and forest behind our house would be covered in windflowers, and I felt like a little fairy when walking among them. I did not want their beauty to fade, didn’t want time to pass. I still don’t, and it makes me rather tense. Yesterday I decided to open up, relax into the sense of time passing, spring changing into summer, then fall, me being a year older.
Can I trust that everything will fall into place if I follow my heart? I panic, with so many things left undone, and I get overwhelmed. I feel there is a chaos inside of me as I try to be everywhere, do everything.
A friend told me to fill my life with joy, and my fears would melt away.
I yearn for that to be true. That’s why I’m here writing.
Somehow as the sunlight dips lower along the mountains, the lake stills, nothing moves. Shapes and colors are reflected in the water. A small chorus of birds are singing, the ones that told me it was morning and time to get up.
I made ginger chai and I’m waiting for it to cool a little before drinking. I love the thin strands of steam rising from my cup
I need to write. To create. I feel it is in a process of healing for me, and maybe its not as selfish as I fear. Maybe I’ll be able to be more present in the lives of loves ones. When I stop writing, I seem to descend into chaos; I need to put words to things, to clear my mind and heart, to feel things.
And so I write. I reach out to the divine, somehow trying to bridge the gap between us, listen to what is being spoken in the silence. The veil feels thin, yet I can’t quite grasp what is being said. I will keep trying, keep listening, keep writing.
Spring has arrived, though there is still a chill in the air. I’ve been picking white, star like flowers and put them on the table in the kitchen, and the bedroom. I’m amazed by their beautiful presence. They seem to glitter with bright magic, white and pure. Perhaps it’s the wildness in them.
My store-bought roses are beautiful as well, but they seem dulled somehow, asleep, only a pale memory of who they really are. They have no scent, and I’m not drawn to them like I am to the wild roses I visit in summer, by the sea. They can’t heal my heart.
I stopped writing, but I’m back now. It takes a bit of persistence to actually sit down and start. Sometimes I think I have nothing to say. Other times I have a lot to say but don’t know how to put it in words that are “good enough”. The trick is to write anyway.
I still have a need to be quiet. I want to walk among the trees and sit on mossy rocks. I want to read, and lie here and look out on the rain, the trees, the wind.
Easter is here and it feels like the world has slowed down. There are fewer cars driving past in the morning; people are allowed to sleep in, allowed to spend time with their family at home, or at their cabin in the mountains. I feel a slight prick of pain at the thought of my own family not being here, but there’s been many Easters without them now. I think mostly I miss the feeling I had as a child, spending the holiday with loved ones, eating chocolate from my Easter egg, watching TV with my sister in the morning.
I wanted to plan a trip to the city but the stores will be closed. I feel a bit strange, like I’m on the outside of the world looking in. I’m not part of the ebb and flow of everything. Instead I follow my own path.
Last Friday took myself on a date to the city. I went early and got there before the shops opened. I sat down on a bench outside the old, stone church, besides my beloved trees and yellow daffodils. I watched people walk past me, some seemed to look at me a bit strangely, like they knew I didn’t quite fit in. I suppose most people don’t sit and read in the morning, most people have somewhere they need to be. But I didn’t, and I loved it. It felt like I was soaking in the world around me. I had my book, but a lot of the time I would just take in the sunlight, the drops of water on the grass, the pigeons that were huddled together in the morning cold. One strode right up to me in hope I had something tasty to offer.
As I child I thought them the most beautiful thing in the world. I loved the rainbow of color around their necks, and how it gleamed when they moved. I still think them beautiful, though I’ve lost some of that childlike wonder. Taking the time to be present brings some of it back for me, and I stayed on that bench looking at the pigeons, until I got too cold to enjoy it much longer.
I walked around a bit, wishing I had put on better shoes. I went to cafes, drank a big glass of hot chocolate with cream and got a bit of an upset stomach. I also managed to break two glasses because I wasn’t looking when pouring myself water, and I felt horrified as they shattered to the floor, stuttering out an apology. The ladies working there were so nice, they just smiled and said not to worry about it. But I felt a bit like crying after that. I sat down with my book and drank my chocolate, watching people come and go, feeling the heat of the sun through the window. It was a cozy place with wooden floors and like I said, really nice people. I felt warmed by the platinum blond in black, who always smiled and seemed genuinly happy to bring people their coffee.
At the end of the day I felt tired, but relaxed, happy. Somehow I had started worrying again by the time I got home. Still I felt I had fed something in me, something that needs a break now and then to be somewhere new and just soak in life.
Where do you go when you feel you need to fill your creative cup? What do you do when you need a break from the routine of daily life?
Artist ~ Victor Nizovtsev
I feel there is a light around me. White and soft. It’s the day coming through the windows, the quiet that makes up Sunday afternoon.
I woke up with period pains, was met with a sink full of dirty dishes, and other tasks left undone. I got angry, hid away in the online world, checking my email, Facebook, clicking from link to link, from video to video.
A part of me whispered that I was missing out on life, missing out on each moment, not noticing the rainy, yet beautiful day outside my window. I managed to put away my laptop, do most of the dishes before sinking back into the couch. There I stayed, in my own body, feeling the pain, the discomfort and gazed out on the world. A wet day, mist on the horizon, silver drops on birch trees. No cars. Only silence.
Then I read. A book about life, beauty and loss. I stopped sometimes to simple stare into space, changing position a bit, noticing little messes here and there, and somehow manage to not let it bother me. I’ve gotten better at that lately. Sometimes I just need to be. I love to read and just look at things, I think I could get very used to it.