I awake to the same gray. Downstairs at the kitchen table, through the glass, those fuchsia flowers are the only source of color against a scratchy gray and brown world.
Yesterday, I allowed myself to focus on the small things, to get lost in the moment, pay full attention to every detail of whatever task I was involved in. It went well for the most part. It rained all day, and when I brewed coffee, I brewed coffee. When I played guitar, I played guitar. When I read, I read. When I wrote, I wrote. At the end of this day of taking things slow, I step outside to enjoy a glass of red wine in the fading daylight. To get to the overhang, I dodge the rain by pressing myself against the wall and ducking under the lanterns. Rain still falling, the gray overhead remains eerily illuminated as the world darkens. I slowly take a sip of wine, breathing into the glass to see the fog. Slow, slow. After a while it gets cold, so I decide to step inside. Yeah! I suddenly boast to myself as I clutch the wineglass in my hand and run alongside the wall again to escape the rain. I’m doing great at this going slow thing! I forget to duck and I slam my head into one of the lanterns and spill wine all over myself.
After I rinse the wine out of my dreadlocks, I make dinner and then later I bake a key lime pie. I play guitar for a while, experimenting with new sounds and trying to understand the process of translating emotion into music. When I finally crawl under the blankets, the rain is still falling.
* * *
Today, I brew a pot of coffee mindfully and then I get to work. Unpacking my car is strange. I’m parked inside a garage for the first time in months. Unloading boxes: my kitchen (oatmeal packets, camp stove, pasta, instant rice, etc) my library (a collection of travel books and classic literature) my closet (a box with a neatly folded stack of t-shirts, a small duffel bag stuffed with jeans in the main pouch, underwear and socks in the sides). My bed (sleeping bag). There is a place for everything. But if I am taking these things out, what does that mean? Where am I putting them now? I’m certainly not unpacking into my old room, because I don’t intend to stay here for too long. If I’m unloading my bed, library, kitchen, and closet, does that mean that this journey is over? Yet my sleeping bag has been folded into the trunk for over a month now, ever since I arrived in Miami. This journey ended some time ago, before I even realized it was happening. And I already miss it. Maybe it will continue. I have no idea.
The big-picture not-knowing starts to get to me again, so I renew my devotion to the moment and I sip my coffee under the gray clouds. This will be another day of simplicity; coffee and wine, emails and reading, writing and guitar.