It’s 3:35 A.M. but as is often the case, I woke up with an idea.
When that happens, it’s okay for the words to make sentences in my head, but when they begin forming paragraphs, best I get up and go to the keyboard. That’s because no matter how powerful those middle of the night thoughts are, sleep erases them as if they never existed.
This time, my thought wasn’t to present a theme or make a point as I usually do, but rather to sort of have a one way visit with you while wishing I could do it in person.
One of the serious downsides to this new technology is that email has replaced letters and texting has replaced phone calls. It’s no wonder we feel more lonely more often. We are being denied the privilege of receiving a piece of paper that a friend has handled and hearing a voice that’s always welcome.
It’s as if everything must be handled with speed and a sense of urgency. Yet, we know that’s not true. That’s the reason I’m writing this column as if you and I were having some friendly conversation, the kind that eases us into reflecting and maybe even imagining.
If you were here, you likely would appreciate the surroundings, a bedroom converted into an office, except I think of it as an Eden, a part of the house I’m allowed to manage, a place in keeping with what I do a lot of — reading, writing, and thinking along with listening to music that does much to either soothe or stimulate the soul.
Across nearly the full width of one end of the room is a knee-holed counter with drawers that does double duty as my chief workplace and a place to store stuff. On top are the usual trappings — computer, desk light, a box filled with pens and pencils, a now technically obsolete but still most helpful card file of names, addresses, and phone numbers. There’s also the backlit screen of my weather station that shows we have had .19 of an inch of rain since I began writing this. No surprise there. The thunder was rolling even before I got up.
Along with that is a desk plaque, a gift from a dear friend who thought so much of one of my sayings that he had it imprinted on a brass plate which is mounted on a beautiful piece of walnut. The message: The only thing that is for sure is yesterday.
There’s also a picture of me on my fourth birthday standing with my great grandmother who was celebrating her ninety-fifth. That our birthdays fell on the same date was enough reason for a local newspaper to consider it newsworthy. What really strikes me, though, is that I can now say that I talked with a person who was born in 1842. My only regret is that I was too young to ask her what it was like to witness the Civil War as a teenager.
Nearby is Mimi, my name for an eight-inch tall piece of statuary I recently bought on a whim. The instant I saw her on a store shelf filled with knick-knacks I knew I had to have her. Even more irresistible was the price: $14.99.
She’s a beach girl complete with a floppy and wide-brimmed blue hat to ward off the hot sun, braided brown hair extending down her back then over the front of her bathing suit, her hands holding a large white starfish close to her body.
Most revealing, however, is the expression on her face. With head slightly tilted and eyes closed, she appears to not have a care in the world, that all that matters is her and her nautical find.
That’s what attracted me to her. Even if she isn’t for real, we all need something to remind ourselves of what we are and have. Being forced to satisfy the “system’s” unending demands and rants causes us to forget we have a life to live. Mimi, bless her heart, helps me remember.
Add to that two five-shelf bookcases filled with CD’s, books, maps, and projects in the making plus a second but much smaller desk for another computer and printer. There’s also an open shelf unit that holds an older but still impressive sound system.
The biggest thing on the walls is a three by four foot map of the U.S. that shows all the counties I have been in — about 74 percent so far. There’s also a large barometer, a wedding present from my wife, and the ever-present Marilyn Monroe calendar that always delights beyond merely indicating the date.
The final touch are two floor-to-ceiling windows. Through them I can see trees and shrubs, the driveway, and the houses on the other side of the street that serve as visual relief when the “right” words just don’t want to come.
And that’s about it. The rain has stopped and the eastern sky has already begun to lighten. Time to get on with another day.
While I haven’t given you much to think about or to do more or less of, maybe I have caused you to feel a bit more relaxed in your own surroundings — and that would surely be a good thing.
