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.
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.