Sunday morning silence
Small floor heater hums
Smudge rearranges himself
Next to radiator pipes
Refrigerator labors to maintain chill
Table clock whispers each tiny tick
Silence seeps through my bones
Outside my kitchen window
Neighborly trees stand at attention
Calm surveyors from above
Testing winds of change
And chance encounters
A dog barks in the near distance
All things considered, I stayed home this Sunday. What will happen next? The question is on my mind in more ways than one.
As for today, I’m grateful to be alive, awake and able to write.
As a writer, I’m turning a corner. Though I’m not sure what to call it, I know what it isn’t about.
It isn’t about feeling good. Nor is it about highlighting lovely side roads without acknowledging exactly where we find ourselves today.
It isn’t about making myself or you happy, or trying to keep myself out of trouble when trouble is spelled t-r-u-t-h.
Not just truth about what’s on the surface, but truth hidden at the heart of what feels normal but is not.
Easier said than done, I know. Yet that’s part of the tug. Trance is a tricky subject, with tentacles that reach everywhere.
The future of our neighbors, our country and this globe is worth our best efforts. Beginning with Sunday morning silence.
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 8 March 2020
Photo taken by me this morning, 8 March 2020