the place inside your head
I have this big long post I'm going to actually get out of the drafts folder sooner or later, but this one decided to assert its dominance.
There is this sweet spot in the weekday mornings where the kid and the husband get off to work, but before the rest of the world really wakes up and starts business for the day that I think may be my favorite time of day. Truthfully, I probably have 87 different favorites, but this one is special. You grab a cup of coffee, possibly the newspaper, and settle in your spot. Sometimes that spot is the kitchen table, paper spread out across the whole thing, coffee cup making little brown circles on the classifieds. Sometimes that spot is parked in front of your computer while you poke through the news channels, your favorite webcomics, the blogs you read. Other times, it's snuggled on your favorite couch/recliner/clawfoot chair with a blanket and warm pets sleeping draped all around you. It doesn't really matter which spot, because the magic happens anyway.
The sounds of the day, of shoulds and oughts, of your carefully planned or completely haphazard schedule for the rest of the day taper off so slowly, you don't even notice it at first. The paper, or book, or mouse lie still in your hand, and you find yourself staring off into the distance, not really looking *at* anything, but the landscape inside your head. All those thoughts stuffed in little boxes and baskets and under the mental rug slowly stir and flutter to life, populating your head with a different, far more comforting kind of noise. It feels somehow dreamy, and almost sacred, and any interruption like a jarring phone or a person walking in unexpectedly can be greeted by embarrassment or a snapped angry comment, the intimacy of enjoying one's own thoughts shattered.
For me, and I have no idea if this happens to anyone else, I go to a place inside my head that I can see, but not summon the stillness of voluntarily. It only can be entered in this dreamy thoughtful state.
It seems to be a house/cafe/bookstore before it opens for the start of business hours. The day is cold and overcast and rainy, making me think of November. The me-I-can-see looks as though I'm a bit younger, my hair is longer, and the lines around her eyes are smooth and calm. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the bar, this me walks into the back room, which is all deep dark woods and giant restaurant windows looking out into the wet autumn world, and she settles in to a corner booth, also wood, and comfortably lined with cushions.
The landscape in this dream world is the wet leaf covered hills of the New Jersey/Pennsylvania hills, the yellowed (but still green in spots) grass covered with specks of dark brown oak and maple leaves that glisten with the rain. The trees have their bark dyed black by the rain, and reach skeletally into the sky in a very evocative way, bleak, poignant, but still somehow deeply and unequivocally hopeful. No creatures stir, because it is a cold and nasty day to be out in the world, but a wonderful one to be warm and safe in your quiet nest.
This sense of gentle well-being seeps in, like the scented steam from the coffee, quietly inhaled and enjoyed, and peace and contentment ripple around you. It's here that those quiet parts of you get fed, I think. The deeply strong parts where you stand tall and pull patience or comfort or the last bit of strength from in the clutch and flurry of the regular day. Brick by slow brick, your defenses repair to the music of your own thoughts and dreams inside your head, let to wander. When complete, you slowly gather yourself together, finding the stray thoughts like beloved children or pets, and call them twittering home.
Leaving this place, on a good day, is almost as gentle as coming to it. The me in the dreamscape picks up her empty coffee mug, sighs with a smile and stretches, then walks back to the bar to tie on an apron and unlock the door for the first employees to arrive. The last I see of this me is pushing through the swinging door to the kitchen as she pulls up her sleeves. The sounds of the world filter in, as do the thoughts and the plans for how the day will run, but now, I reach for them with good heart, the quiet having returned to my soul.
I very much hope that you can find the quiet and gentleness in your day, when you need it. Thanks for taking the time to share in mine.
There is this sweet spot in the weekday mornings where the kid and the husband get off to work, but before the rest of the world really wakes up and starts business for the day that I think may be my favorite time of day. Truthfully, I probably have 87 different favorites, but this one is special. You grab a cup of coffee, possibly the newspaper, and settle in your spot. Sometimes that spot is the kitchen table, paper spread out across the whole thing, coffee cup making little brown circles on the classifieds. Sometimes that spot is parked in front of your computer while you poke through the news channels, your favorite webcomics, the blogs you read. Other times, it's snuggled on your favorite couch/recliner/clawfoot chair with a blanket and warm pets sleeping draped all around you. It doesn't really matter which spot, because the magic happens anyway.
The sounds of the day, of shoulds and oughts, of your carefully planned or completely haphazard schedule for the rest of the day taper off so slowly, you don't even notice it at first. The paper, or book, or mouse lie still in your hand, and you find yourself staring off into the distance, not really looking *at* anything, but the landscape inside your head. All those thoughts stuffed in little boxes and baskets and under the mental rug slowly stir and flutter to life, populating your head with a different, far more comforting kind of noise. It feels somehow dreamy, and almost sacred, and any interruption like a jarring phone or a person walking in unexpectedly can be greeted by embarrassment or a snapped angry comment, the intimacy of enjoying one's own thoughts shattered.
For me, and I have no idea if this happens to anyone else, I go to a place inside my head that I can see, but not summon the stillness of voluntarily. It only can be entered in this dreamy thoughtful state.
It seems to be a house/cafe/bookstore before it opens for the start of business hours. The day is cold and overcast and rainy, making me think of November. The me-I-can-see looks as though I'm a bit younger, my hair is longer, and the lines around her eyes are smooth and calm. Grabbing a cup of coffee from the bar, this me walks into the back room, which is all deep dark woods and giant restaurant windows looking out into the wet autumn world, and she settles in to a corner booth, also wood, and comfortably lined with cushions.
The landscape in this dream world is the wet leaf covered hills of the New Jersey/Pennsylvania hills, the yellowed (but still green in spots) grass covered with specks of dark brown oak and maple leaves that glisten with the rain. The trees have their bark dyed black by the rain, and reach skeletally into the sky in a very evocative way, bleak, poignant, but still somehow deeply and unequivocally hopeful. No creatures stir, because it is a cold and nasty day to be out in the world, but a wonderful one to be warm and safe in your quiet nest.
This sense of gentle well-being seeps in, like the scented steam from the coffee, quietly inhaled and enjoyed, and peace and contentment ripple around you. It's here that those quiet parts of you get fed, I think. The deeply strong parts where you stand tall and pull patience or comfort or the last bit of strength from in the clutch and flurry of the regular day. Brick by slow brick, your defenses repair to the music of your own thoughts and dreams inside your head, let to wander. When complete, you slowly gather yourself together, finding the stray thoughts like beloved children or pets, and call them twittering home.
Leaving this place, on a good day, is almost as gentle as coming to it. The me in the dreamscape picks up her empty coffee mug, sighs with a smile and stretches, then walks back to the bar to tie on an apron and unlock the door for the first employees to arrive. The last I see of this me is pushing through the swinging door to the kitchen as she pulls up her sleeves. The sounds of the world filter in, as do the thoughts and the plans for how the day will run, but now, I reach for them with good heart, the quiet having returned to my soul.
I very much hope that you can find the quiet and gentleness in your day, when you need it. Thanks for taking the time to share in mine.
posted by Helen | 7:57 AM
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