Small things help.
When there is much to be done, a deep breath, a step backwards will do. A nighttime walk in the cold, past Christmastreed living rooms and icicle lights, electric candles set in darkened windows and wreathed doorways. Putting up strings of lights in your bedroom: the figure you cut as you hang them, perched on chairs and mattresses, nails in mouth, hammer in hand; the tangled lines in which they fall as they are being hung; the arcs they describe once they are up, the rays and halos they cast where the bulbs touch the wall.
Being invited to things. Walking through misty rain to write something, think about something, talk about something, cry about something. Falling apart and being held together unexpectedly, in a restaurant perhaps, or a movie theater, where someone has noticed and told you it’s okay. Seeing people in their honest moments, in their unselfconscious moments, at their most beautiful. Not being afraid to speak; knowing someone is listening. Walking in the cold with a cup of coffee in your hand. Noticing a change in your neighborhood.
Singing as you walk down the street. Getting an unexpected phone call. A fresh pot of tea when you come inside from the cold. Dialing a familiar number on a rotary telephone, the weight of the old receiver in your hand, against your ear. Receiving a letter from a friend; writing a reply. Looking up from your desk and seeing the lights you’ve hung in your room, reflected in the glass frames of photographs on the wall.


3 thoughts on “Reflections.

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