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The View

Horse eating grass

Image: markuso / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

From where I sit, I can see horses.  What a privilege to write such a sentence.  Yes, I must first look past the fire escape-styled terrace (nicer than the fire escape in the apartment I lived in as a child, but for all purposes a fire escape), then the bare wintering trees, and yes, I can see all the neighboring condos and huge houses, but there is a red stable, and when I don’t expect it, there passes the slender figure of a horse, startling me out of reverie. I think at first it is a deer I see, but in an instant, I see the horse I’ve come to regard as a friend.

My immediate neighbors are two artists, a musician, a poet, and a toddler, and if that isn’t romantic, then what is?  And, and,  in my view. are horses.  My dear college professor, Mr. Gifford, uses italics to impart humor, I remember now, remembering too the letters I mean to write.  A friend in San Diego lives in a condo that faces the sea, and she has a wall of windows that let her see every day the crash of waves.  Here, I hardly go to the sea, content with this view of trees, stable, horse. It’s not permanent, of course. And maybe it’s distracting.  I havent mentioned the birds that flit.  Fly.

Days of chai and dreaming gardens

close up of teapot by david miller

close up of teapot by David Miller/dreamtime

Up until mid-week, it was all coffee and paper, comparison and contrast, puzzling over a sentence.  Then off went the electronic draft, followed by a solid hefty manuscript in the mail.  I made this delectable pancake for a breakfast celebration, substituting some main ingredients with what I had on hand, but it was nevertheless a royal treat.  I had gone to Mysore practice before as well–funny how things always taste better after yoga.  Later, with the oven still hot, feeling industrious,I baked an acorn squash, and then decided I needed a nap.

Today, I had the very odd underwater sensation of now, what?  What comes next?  I skipped yoga, never a wise move. I put in a load of laundry.  I began to read Tender by Nigel Slater in which he recounts the beginnings of his fruitful,splendid patch of land, and I tried to imagine what a garden, my garden, my garden of least effort, might look like.  A garden of least effort would require lots of leafing through catalogs, drinking many cups of tea, plotting in a notebook.  It would be a garden of winter leisure dreaming. I still don’t have an armchair.  Doesn’t every garden dreamer’s winter need one?  Overstuffed, taking too much room, piles of books and cups underneath?  Maybe I’ll just throw a coverlet over my slender couch and pretend it’s an armchair.  I’m already pretending I’ll have a garden.

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