It has been a full year since I posted on this blog, and I
am beyond apologies to others or to myself. When I review the year's jumbled
snippets I see too much
has gone unfinished.
Forcing myself to return to finishing pieces I
find promising, has me returning to review my writing process. What follows is an exercise.
7:30 a.m. walk
I went up to Fairmount and crossed over to Shelbourne and
turned east. It wasn’t until a hedge of spruce tapped at me as it blurred by on
my left that I realized I was walking too fast. My thoughts were on my legs and
feet, slate and curb height. I had not looked around at the neighborhood even
though I had chosen the route – a quick decision on a morning of many options –
because it would be beautiful. Walking on my own street becomes timeless. There
is little change and I could draw the houses in my sleep. So, I looked up.
Out of my tunnel-vision, I consciously noted the houses,
politely and without staring. I felt a reciprocating shiver as though I had
come upon a neighbor in her housecoat. But, since I didn’t slow my pace, I felt the
houses demurred. The well-kept yards and marvelously grand architecture relaxed
me. I was in Hathaway Brown’s neighborhood with houses that have been used to many
years of being admired.
There were treatments to savor, the oval window was framed with
wings, a turret cornered a brick fairy tale structure and guarded a mound of
impatience. The week before I had been shopping practical houses for Matt and
Maggie, but this neighborhood, far out of their budget, was for dreams.
I turned on Claridge Oval and had the sun on my back as I
headed home. The crab apples in the medium had an ochre tinge in the rising
light. The large oak in front of First Baptist had clumps of turned leaves that
stood out like chipped paint against the dark green foliage. The morning light
revealed too much of what time touched.
The final turn down Canterbury, I disrupted a series of
mourning doves who fanned their tails at me. A contingent of sparrows had
claimed Cindy’s front stoop, and I saw Meg’s black cat circling another house.
A rabbit, too comfortable with people, waited until I was three feet away
before she popped under the hedge. Passing Kathy’s, I set off her two terriers
who danced up the fence. I saw the fast movement of a large cat pass by another
hedge several doors down with a stereopticon effect. I hoped he had chipmunks
in his scope.
My feet crunched my own gravel drive, one of three still on
this city street, hold outs. I thought, again, of how the water drains through
it, how it feels so natural and friendly, how the children like to stop and
play with the stones. Children should always have such an opportunity. As I
came to my back steps, my legs brushed against the overgrown spearmint reminding
me of yard I work I had neglected.
I decided to have mustard on my egg, instead of salt. It was
that type of day.
