This is a good time to blog. Dinner is simmering on the stove and the salad is made, stowed away in the fridge. We won't eat for another hour or so because the evening still holds plenty of light ,although I did notice how the sun is gradually moving South again because of the way the dappled light fell on the kitchen wall this evening, caused by the sway of the Ash tree beyond the window. That makes me sad, Summer already on the wane, in these parts at least. I left the kitchen as hubby spoke with his mother in California. It is important to stay connected. To hear her voice. If only I could beam her over here right this minute, oh what a joy that would be. But I can't and she does not want to travel the distance, as she has in the past. How lovely it would be to smother her with affection and nice meals and walks by the sea. I dream of that, seeing her in the kitchen with the boys or sitting in the living room as I light a small Summer fire in the stove, as she reminisces about her life and the past and the old ranch in San Luis Obispo before she and hubby's Dad divorced. I do miss her but we dream about visiting next year again before time runs out for her or for us. One never knows what lies ahead.
Walked by the ocean today. Young son beside me. Fourteen now. Ah, but he is something special. Okay, hold it, being a Mom here, but he is. He is open and kind and sensitive and well, poetic, I suppose if he read this, he would dispute my words. His blond hair blew out in a kind of halo from the wind and I thought my god, but you are a beautiful person. Well, we walked some distance and out onto a promontory, a nice swerve of land that slices the sea and he said to me; look at the seagull Mom, how it just seems to float on the wind and I looked up and I could see that he was right. The marvellous white seagull just lifted and dipped, like music really. I said, yes, I see, he is trusting the wind, allowing it to take him wherever it wishes. I said, I wish we could do that, allow ourselves to be carried by the wind, open ourselves up like that bird and he said, but we can't because we're too heavy, we're too full of bones. And yes, that's true but we could try. We could allow ourselves the freedom of expression at the very least, and lose our inhibitions, spread open our arms and toss up our hair and search inside for all those ideas and words and love and thoughts and by doing that, surely, the darkest corners would get a spring cleaning of a sort, and we would be free to soar up into that dazzling sky where the sun shines and there is nothing, nothing at all, to get in our way.