It has been a week of not completing blogs and worrying about not completing them, and then worrying that I wasn’t adequately worried about not completing them – then wondering if this is a sign of inability to focus or an unwillingness to focus.
One blog was about synchronicity in NYC. Three paragraphs from that below:
This pulchritude and chaos of talent lets the Goddess of Synchronicity amuse Herself by arranging “chance” encounters. The ultimate good hostess, she places this person next to that for good conversation and inspiration. Ours and hers, I suspect.
Two nights ago I was eating dinner solo at a favorite restaurant when a younger man was seated at the next table. I had pegged him the moment he walked in as a musician from out of town, probably Nashville. It was the worn jeans, jacket, and long hair, but also his bodily ease.
I was right, and I was wrong. He does usually live in Nashville and is a musician, but is classically trained in opera and is composing two musicals and one opera. His singing voice is sublime, he has been one of People magazine’s “Sexiest Men of the Year,” and a couple years ago he tried to rescue a large dog from a hot-wired fountain. The dog died, he only barely survived. He also trains dogs, and goes barefoot half the year.
Okay, so that was that unfinished blog, and don’t you wonder what happened next? We had lunch the next day. He may train my dog.
Another blog was about being cool. Two paragraphs below:
My love-hate relationship to cool is not because I can’t do cool. I can do cool. I have the cheekbones and lack of innocence. What I don’t have is the necessary willingness to congeal. I don’t want to observe life while leaning against a wall, hands in my pockets and disdain in my eyes. I don’t want to be so involved with a stance and persona that I miss all the fun – the messiness of being human, the splat and awkwardness of it, the insecurity of it, the raw unhoned gifts of it, the confusion and heartache and love of it. I want to live within the mistakes.
Giving up being cool means you can be silly, inconsistent, madly in love, disrespectful of your own age and others, honest, and wear plaid.
That blog ended because I didn’t know where it was going.
Which brings us to today:
We’ve waited long for spring this year, haven’t we? And now the many trees around my home that bloom in the spring have just started doing so. It will be a relay from one to the other for the next month or more, white, light pink, dark pink.
I planted a rosebud tree in front last fall, and it survived the winter. I can see small buds that will come out soon. I showed them to my granddaughter, and told her that when I lived in Tennessee the hills were filled with wild rosebuds and that is why I planted mine in my tame cultivated DC neighborhood, for that bit of wildness and memory.
Today it is raining, which delays the spring a little more. The warmth is still inside. (See photo.)
But spring will come. We know that is true, and when it does my dog, trained or not, and I can bask in the irises and tulips that will come up. I planted the bulbs last fall with great care.
We will bask in the warmth after winter. How cool is that?