I recognize this for what it is, which is a very unusual moment in time. Still, I believe I would be squandering its treasure if I did not examine it carefully for meaning.
My car is broken, so I have to walk. Or cancel. Or borrow. Or ask people to come to me.
My vacuum is broken, so I have to sweep.
Without the clock on the cellphone I used to own, I wake up when my body and the sun tell me it's time. Which is almost always very early.
I go to sleep at night when I am too tired to read any longer. With a week-long break between classes, I am revisiting Wallace Stegner: All the Little Live Things. I had forgotten how much fun he is to read, how masterful he was with our language.
I sleep soundly, deeply.
Funny how the rhythms of the body and mind sort themselves out when freed from the screens and sounds of our technological objects.
It is very quiet in the house at this moment as the others are temporarily in other places. This weekend, however, the kids will be back and there will be a new puppy, too. It will be the opposite of what it is this morning, and my heart practically explodes with joy imagining that.
Sometimes I think that life gives us what we won't give ourselves. I have been through this before, when all the modern conveniences broke down at once. Only this time, instead of being in a rush to fix or to solve or replace, I am ... outside in the gardens. Clearing, weeding, admiring, dreaming.
Vermont is ecstatic with new life right now. The tiny pond out back is filled with little black dots that will soon be stretching out their little black tails and wriggling all around. The lilacs are blooming! And the peonies are reaching their tender shoots up toward the sky. The apple trees, with their blossoms of pink and white are more stunning than any ball gown ever made by human hands.
I know that life is asking me to look, to be quiet, still, thoughtful. To not be sad or kerfluffeled or angry. I expect the toaster to give out any minute now. And it's all OK.
I forgot how satisfying it is to use a broom. How peaceful it is to wake up in a white room full of sun. How nice it feels to not go anywhere.
I have Siddhartha sitting on the kitchen table, as I am putting the finishing touches on a paper that is due today. I have revisited this book often in my life, each time finding new and deeper meaning. The last line: "He bowed low, right down to the ground, in front of the man sitting there, motionless, whose smile reminded him of everything he had ever loved in this life, of everything that had ever been of value and holy in his life."
I believe this is one of the things embedded in days like the ones I have been having this week: an opportunity to revisit, to experience, to be reminded of those two whoppers: of value and holy.