On Waiting

I write a letter to a friend and I am trying to explain how I feel. I say, I feel quiet. Now and then writing can feel surprising in that you say something so simple and it feels so true. Perhaps that is the whole point and I am saying something you already know. Perhaps the point is to surprise ourselves now and then by revealing how simple we are when we would like to go around thinking otherwise.

Right now I am concerned with nothing. I am experiencing this odd palatial quiet. It is very unlike me.

I had to look up the word palatial after I wrote it. Because although it felt right sometimes I have to double check that the words I am using are in fact sound when pulled from the ether. The definition says, “resembling a palace in being spacious and splendid.” I surprise myself again. It is the perfect word to describe this quiet.

The ocean is grey slate blue and the horizon line so clear it feels sharp this morning. I cherish being alone more than most things in life, and even that will change some day. I keep on waiting to be worried but it isn’t coming. Perhaps I have done all the worrying I can do for some time or perhaps there is nothing to worry about.

There are some things I will never get over here. Shades of blue. The constant sound of the water. The vision of a bird flying so close to surface that it seems to be one with its shadow. In another place the doors will be open and a white linen curtain will blow in and the afternoon sun will will warm us both and you will be asleep. And these places will be switched and this will be the dream.

It is this time of year that the whales go south. And I am sitting here waiting to see one in the water. To wave hello as it goes by.