Linda Hoye's Blog, page 75

Scapes

It’s gray, damp, and cool this morning—a respite for those who don’t appreciate the heat. A gift of disappointment for me. I appreciate our desert-like summers, relishing time spent outdoors at this time of the year and mourning every day that isn’t hot. Summer is so fleeting. It’s not even summer yet and there are still

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Still, Small

I think of quiet. The world’s cacophony assaults and I hunger for silence, I bathe in solitude at every opportunity. I make space for these. One morning when I am not thinking of quiet, I am distracted by a different stillness. I look up and listen. For surely I will hear a whisper in this

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Reading

It’s afternoon and I’m on the deck with a book and Maya. I’ve tricked her into settling down and relaxing by putting her bed on a chair next to me and giving her a chew treat. Sometimes having a dog is like having a child. I’m reading The Home for  Unwanted Girls by Joanna Goodman.

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Hawk

On another morning I’m sitting on the deck with books—reading, pausing to be present, and reading some more. A noisy bird down on the ridge behind the trees distracts me. I watch and wait to catch a glimpse of the quiet-stealer. It turns out to be not one, but two, hawks, and of them has

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Important, Not Urgent

Gerry leaves early for a hike and I putter in the kitchen making pasta salad and a big batch of granola. It’s 9:00 when everything’s done, cleaned up, and put away: the time I head down to the woman cave to write. But the sun is shining and it is warm outside. The deck looks

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Awake

I’m awake in the middle of the night and my mind wants to race, as minds tend to do in those dark sleep-hungry hours. Once I wrestled, stealing glances at my bedside clock and worrying about how tired I would be at work in the morning. We don’t keep a clock in the bedroom anymore,

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Chamomile

With my thumb and forefinger, I pluck tiny white and yellow chamomile flowers. They are a perpetual gift: the more I pick the more return in their place. I toss them on a plate on my windowsill to dry and lift my fingers to enjoy the sweet aroma. Later I go back to the raised bed

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Music

I’m here in my own bed after spending the weekend away, hungry to return to the ordinary. A symphony welcomes the day. The orchestra: a hummingbird buzzing at the feeder outside the open door; the distant sound from the valley of Monday morning start-up; the soft percussion of my husband’s sleeping breath. If we’re not supposed

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Divine

The burden that comes from putting one mud-heavy foot in front of the other day after day grows troublesome. I should make a list, I think. Spend time ruminating on simple happy things. Or maybe there’s a better way. Be still. Listen. Words, overused, have lost something of their meaning. Try another: Divine. An old-fashioned stringing

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Dream Small

My hands grip the steering wheel, my throat is tight, and a single tear forms and falls from the corner of my eye. I don’t wipe it away, but allow it to meander down my cheek as testimony to what has hurt me. I stop at a red light, and as I’m waiting I notice

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