Beautiful Things

I bought the most lovely bowls two days ago. Black and textured on the outside, glossy and honey brown with a crackled glaze inside. I only have two, a small bowl I use as bowl and cup in one, and a larger, shallow bowl for bigger things. I love them, and find myself passing by to turn them over and over in my hands, admiring their heft and the rough/smooth transitions under my fingers, carefully removing the stickers. It’s bittersweet (the story of my life, eh?), I love my two, but long for a full set, and a table to set them on, and people to surround that table and things to talk about.

I’ve had a lovely work schedule, two days off, two days of work, another day off and then two audit shifts. So, I’m at home now with no particular bedtime, sipping wine from my bowl/cup, cartoons turned low on the TV, sites opened up on the computer for random reading. I bought two books on my shopping expedition, and have finished with one and am trying to put off the other…I go through books quickly, and have missed having them at hand. All of mine are stowed in my trunk, as I have no room to put them in here, and no real desire to drag them out and then load them back into the car in a month. And in my head I’m imagining a home and drawing bookcases on the walls and big windows and wishing I weren’t such a nomad. But that is neither here nor there.

Walking home from work is one of my favorite times of day lately. Work is done, my time is my time…even if I have to immediately sleep for a shift in eight hours, it’s a wonderfully lighthearted feeling. I’m realizing that this time in my life is unique. I know I’ll look back, at thirty, at forty, and envy myself, with my own money, in clothes I bought for myself, going home to a little room that I share with no other person, my personal belongings scattered about, no safety net but no leash, either. A time in my life that is completely, truly, wholeheartedly my own. I’m greedy, hoarding my time…shutting myself away, true, but indulging in long showers, long naps, long sessions of reading and idly turning pages and sitting on my bed with the ceiling fan ruffling the sheets eyes closed and daydreaming. Selfish, selfish, but wonderful.

I’m trying hard not to think of this as time wasted – but imagine all the things I could do with at least eight hours to myself every day! Spin pounds of yarn, read valuable books, learn at least the skeleton of a language, keep things clean, write something more than personal ramblings. I do end up feeling guilty in quiet moments. There’s no internal end note for this…I have no conclusion, no balance here. I’m still trying to decide if I deserve to waste my time without guilt, if long naps and daydreams and idle page turning are worthwhile, despite being non productive. ‘Should’ and ‘want to’ constantly battle, but isn’t that the essence of life? What you want to do and what you need to do trying to edge each other out, only rarely overlapping?

I’m sitting back against my pillows wishing for a spike of energy right now. I’m not sure what does it, but sometimes…life just seems so /possible/, and colors gain a more vivid edge, clutter seems more like art and my life becomes an amazing, multi-faceted thing just waiting for me to turn it to catch the light and cast an array of rainbows on the wall. My bones vibrate and I feel a voilent joy…I want to throw myself into something – a crowd, a bar, the ocean – and yell and jump and clean and create something all at once, my chest feels tight and I’m namelessly excited, joyful, anticipating something, something, something….

Occasionally this feeling will last days at a time, and I’ll feel like I’m flying…other days, the tiniest thing will pop the joy-bubble and it’s like time slowing down to normal and colors regaining an edge of grey and my usual weight easing back into my body, grounding me, erasing my happy little shine and instead pointing out imperfections. And that one little thing is what I dread…the stubbed toe, the tangle, the failed download. Anything. When I’m happy, I’m aware of the tiny sad self I keep around, hugging her knees in the depths of my mind, worrying about that one tiny thing that will knock me off my tower. Which is silly…because sometimes the worry /becomes/ the tiny thing, and besides, how silly to worry about being sad again when you’re happy?

Bah.

I think when I’m casting around in my head for something else to say, it is time to stop typing. This box is becoming the tiny thing – I hate feeling empty, like there are no words waiting to sneak out of my fingers and onto this page! But, the rush of words has ended. So has this.