good afternoon, dear one,
(or good morning, good evening, soon-to-be sweet dreams,)
while I know it’s been a while since I’ve written you something sweet (and fear not, it’s on its way), I can’t help but doodle in the margins about moments from today, the past few weeks, that I’ve kept for myself. when I get overwhelmed by the forecast’s third heatwave, or how a morning scroll through the news threatens to draw the curtains to the day before I’ve left my bed, I’ll fall into the habit of noticing what else is worthy of my attention. a shift of perspective, like a camera focus, where the wide kitchen view blurs and narrows to draw the eye to the simplicity of a peeled orange on the counter.
my heartbeat kicks up in tempo and I pan my attention from concepts (the future, catastrophe, loneliness) down to where my body is seated (sights, sounds, smells, sensations—skin tickled by my hair that’s grown long enough to touch my shoulders. the wonderful sleeping rise and fall of a cat’s soft belly).
this living space in the small is where my lungs loosen and ease, but it’s not met without rebuttal. even now, half of me is reminded—it’s not good to stay here forever, the world isn’t saved by romancing the seconds that pass; your life won’t find its course if you keep your head down, staring at your feet. I know. I know. what monumental tasks to be strapping to our shoulders every morning. forgetting we are fallible to more information in a few minutes than, in the past, one might have received in a year. there’s a reason my body begs to slow the clock and catch its breath again.
if I can’t grant myself this, if I deny myself the pleasures of what I love most about living, that feels so much more like spending this life than savoring it, doesn’t it? sink into the small with me for a while.
I love you, satisfying nip of a new tattoo. I love you, haunting candle glow of the August moon. I love you, hungry fingers yearning to touch. I love you, hot bubbled cheese on a bagel sandwich.
I catch the gray, wet sheen of a whale’s tail dip into another wave. a shiver of awe whistles through my spine. though I know exactly what I’m looking at, the image stirs the blood of some ancient storytelling and I’m reminded of how our fears and faith in monsters and gods are born.
on a walk by the river, music cascades over the sidewalk. someone in the apartments overhead practices violin by their open window, and suddenly, nowhere I need to be is as important. I sit and listen to their symphony, imagine their eyes closed, face pressed gently into the wood’s curve, the bow skating gracefully over every string. the picture becomes so crisp, I can almost hear the details with every note; this bowed instrument more paintbrush the longer I listen. joggers and bikers buzz by unaware of this concert and I watch the shoreline rocks get kissed and kissed and kissed. when the violinist reaches their finale, I consider a round of applause or shouting up my appreciation, but then worry if I was meant to hear this at all. the window closes. my walk resumes.
I wonder what kind of jokes would make my dog laugh. I don’t think I’ll ever grow my hair out long and tangling again. I think living by the train station has made my daydreaming worse. the sparking grind of the Amtrak slows and its doors shudder open. I imagine what’s pulled its passengers to be here, what business trip in Bend, or romantic escape to Seattle, or a long-awaited family reunion in their small hometown somewhere in between. I consider how many of them are seeing the city for the first time, or if any are sleeping; heads pressed to the cold window, lulled into dreams and cradled by the train from one destination to the next. before midnight, I hear the train’s whistle again and feel restless.
I want to learn pottery and spin wet clay between my hands. I want a morning spent fishing and reeling in the night’s dinner. I want to be exhausted in a cramped art studio, staring at a well-loved canvas, green and blue paint freckling my cheeks and knotted hair. when I talk to friends about all the futures I see for myself, I call them my pocket-lives. little spans of a whole existence I keep with me. I hope each is out there on some timeline. I hope each is happy. in this one I play out here, the kitchen counter is dusted with ground coffee. a wall in my room is smattered with post-its of unfinished poems. I race the sun to see who can meet the horizon first. another morning, I feel the weight of unknowing crash heavily onto my heart. I breathe and notice the trees.
with love,
schuyler (sky-ler)
venmo: schuylerpeck
making the little moments sublime, thank you for your craft & care
What truly lovely wordsmithing emanates from you and your muse. I am so happy to have crossed paths with your work as I am certainly enriched by it.
Here’s to many more such encounters encouraged by your sharing.
Blessings indeed.