Thoughts on a Friday

Before me is my bedroom window, just above my desk. It's about eight o'clock and the sun is setting, although the sky is so pale with mist that you can't quite tell.

I have my window open and outside I hear small birds, cars passing by on the street below, leftover droplets of a day drenched with rain; the air is sparkling with tiny beads of water and the grass is far more luscious than you'd think.

I love this time of year. Each time I breathe in the spring air I swear I am healed. I stepped out into my backyard about an hour ago, the sky still falling, puddles left and right and the ground a miniature marshland. I stood there for a few moments, absolutely enjoying the rain.

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These days I feel eager: so often I'm cooped up in my room working on projects tirelessly, moving forward, swirling to and from work, designing my days; all things I do I do with intention, mostly, and truly I do. I have a plan, or an outline, perhaps, for how I'd like things to unfold, but yet I am also just taking small steps each morning that I wake and mostly I'm just in a state of allowing what's to be and what has already been.

Allowing is a most beautiful state to be in. There is nothing more freeing than allowing: to me this is open arms, open eyes, most definitely an open heart, but more than anything it is accepting at the very same time. Being open to challenges, open to opportunities, accepting of hardships, accepting of accomplishments. The path of least resistance.

At the same time though, might I add, there is an element that is just as importance as sitting back and allowing, and that's doing, too. Getting up and making it happen. Whatever it is. That's what I've been so eager about lately, continuing to create for myself what it is that I feel I'm lacking around me. Never do we need to feel stuck or trapped in one way of living or doing or being, because we are the designers of our world, and this is as thrilling as can be. Even more thrilling is the idea of allowing the outcomes of things, a no-expectation way of living, you know?

Just some thoughts on a Friday.

Morning Light

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Outside it's quiet and grey, my blinds still drawn, a cat at my feet, and I'm nestled under three layers: cotton, flannel, and a quilt. There are four pillows on my bed and my head rests somewhere between them.

I roll over once, maybe twice, and I peer at my fish across the room swirling gently 'round his bowl. I sit up. I reach across the bed to the window beside me, and I let the light in.

That's my most favourite part of the morning: letting the light in. There's something about morning light, something I don't have a word for.

I think for a moment; occasionally I will open my journal and write a few words, otherwise, I stand up and make my way down the old wooden staircase that creaks loudly. Another opportunity for morning light: the curtains above the kitchen sink are closed. I open them, and the trees in the backyard are awake, the birds are alive, and there are rabbits.

The icy breeze outside prompts me to turn the kettle on. A mug, a teabag, and a seat at the table while I plan my day ahead.

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Saturday Stroll

It has taken me almost two years to go for a walk in my neighbourhood. When I lived by the lake, I would go for walks on my own regularly. I would think and dream, and feel the breezes waterside. I was introspective back then, deeply introspective, though I was a pretty lost girl I'd say.

Then I moved. And I sort of hibernated in my new space for a time: I just hadn't that inclination to stroll the streets and smell the air and look up at the trees. My backyard, mind you, is a glorious oasis of many a flower and foliage.

Today however I went for a walk. It's an uncomfortable feeling of exposure: here I am, world, I'm coming out for a walk. I had to somewhat force myself to put my shoes on.

The air was chilly, but the sun made it mild. It was windy, and bright, and everything was alive. I walked passed the most bloomed tree I've seen, exploding with pink bursts, showering them on the grass below. I swept past white picket fences, small homes from 50 years ago lining the sidewalk-less streets, and oak trees as tall as the sky.

It was lovely and liberating.

incomprehensibly enormous infinity of nothingness

Looking out my window

So the other night my mind transcended into a new dimension as I was sitting on the edge of my bed, gazing out my window up to the sky, past the trees, at a big puff of condensation passing by overhead.

I was originally singing at the top of my lungs and swaying along to Elton John and Alanis Morissette until I found myself simply drifting away. I sat and stared for quite some time. Contemplated as I watched the leaves on the trees blow swiftly. And then I went outside and stood on my driveway looking very peculiarly up at the dusty blueness of sky and wispy wafts of white wind. I do believe a man saw me and I can imagine he was curious about what I was staring at so intently.

An airplane flew through the clouds and then I thought,

"What are we, what is this? Where are we? What the hell is life?" Typical ponderings.

There I was. On my driveway. Or not at all, in fact. In the cosmos I floated along, quite simply seeing beyond this thing we call "sky" and into the incomprehensibly enormous infinity of nothingness, for that is all everything seems to be, is nothing.

Bottled Thunderstorms

If only I could bottle up the sweet essence of damp foliage and flowers, warm air and turbulent clouds I would. And I'd send everyone a bottle to open and to release the sacchariferous breeze contained inside. And if I could capture the harmonious sound of the heavy rain calmly falling about the Earth and the rumbling thunder, I'd send it to everyone as well. And if I could catch a bright white and purple-hued strike of lightning, I'd put it in a jar.

And then I would mail it out to all the people who are not mesmerized by thunderstorms.