When one lives a solitary life, time is pleasantly malleable, conforming to whatever mood or circumstance exists on any given day, or night. Now that the minutes of my life are not harnessed with
those of another, I sleep when I am tired, eat when I am hungry and let myself sit on a metal chair in the golden light of evening, doing nothing more or less than watching and listening to the approach of sweet darkness. This absolute unbounded freedom, in regard to time, is extraordinary, infinitely delightful and refreshes my spirit like nothing else.
Tonight I find myself unable to sleep, although the stars have crossed half the heavens and the moon as disappeared below the western horizon. My little man and I noticed him, whom we fondly call 'the silly old moon', sailing high in the summer sky as we stepped out of bright heat and into the kitchen for a cool lunch of grapes and cheese earlier today. This day, as he says in his high little boy voice. This day, this night, which makes ever so much more sense than 'today or tonight', when you stop to think about it. My daughter, Abbey, used to say 'yesternight' when she was a very little girl. Makes perfect sense, don't you agree. Yesterday, yesternight.
There is window in my home that housed a double layer of screens for several days. Until the final day, I was not aware of the doubling. Each time I would pass by, the crossing wires would form wild and beautiful mosaics in the opening. As I walked past, my thoughts were already outside and nearly arrived at my destination, so it was only my eyes that noticed the wavering patterns. It was an observed aberration without thought to cause. The explanation for the random swirling of light and dark snapped into place on the day I discovered a second window lacking its screen altogether.
Each of us has our own unique personality, partly that which was gifted to us through our genetics, but also,attached to, embedded within that first true gem of ourselves are all manner of habits, quirks, physical motions, vocal inflections, eye movements and patterns of thought that we have picked up from everyone whose lives have ever brushed up against our own. When we line up with any other person new patterns are formed, unique to that particular pair. I know there are deep psychological reasons that explain why some personalities meet and click, sending off layers of harmonics, while others are fall into dissonance, making both persons ill at ease. We're not going into that right now, and probably never will, but it is interesting.
I know, this is a ramble, but it is the middle of the night and sleep eludes me. Also, I do not know if this will actually lead us anywhere, so feel free to click away if you feel I am wasting your time. I'm not trying to say anything, just thinking through my fingertips.
It is very interesting to me to notice how my own personality reacts to and with the separate personalities of each of my children, their spouses and each of the grandchildren. Every single connection is as unique as a snowflake. This is most interesting with the grandkids because we have less history with which to be influenced. Our weavings into each other seem more cleanly defined. Of course they are more of their purer selves, especially when they are very young, before having gone to public school, that place where so much shifts due to the influences of so many, by design or by chance.
I can almost put colors to how I feel my grandchildren are, who they are, now, in this moment of their lives. Let me try. This should be fun. The clock ticks on.
Rowan is the youngest, at 2, and appears as a peachy apricot edged with yellow. Everett, 3 years, is a gentle, medium green with soft brown rising through it . Zane, almost 5, is sky blue and white, moving, like his eyes. Maggie, nearly 6, is lavender, silver and pink. Brendan, at 8 1/2, is a caramel color with sparks of blue light.
These colors are probably the colors of who they feel like when they mix with me, rather than who they are when they are standing alone within themselves. If you were to ask them what color they think they are, they would probably say nothing at all like those colors, but that is the way they feel to me.
I usually don't make strong connections with the littlest babies. They need to be several months old before I begin to get the feel for who they 'are' as people. This is why I have trouble writing their personal lullabies until quite awhile after they are born. I didn't write Everett's or Rowan's songs until they were nearly a year old. Maggie's and Brendan's littlest lullabies were written when they about four months old, at least, and B's second lullaby, the classic Goodnight, Starlight, was written when he was two and a half years old.
The exception to this rule is Zane's lullaby, which was written during the day that he was born. I knew nothing about him at that time but found myself thrown into fervent prayer for him for most of that day, for some reason. By the time we received the call that he had arrived, the song was finished. We did not know, at that time, anything about his several heart problems and certainly had no idea what other tragic turns of events awaited us mere weeks ahead.
I'll say this again: the songs I write are given to me out of the quiet vastness of the universe. I only write them down and pass them along.
No closure here, my friends. I am going back to bed and try to make the magic happen once again. I feel I will be sleeping late tomorrow morning.