quiet is so beautiful and sounds such sweet centers of life

from mosaic (4) by freda karpf

  One could make an argument that at any given moment, we are all singing songs inside our heads.  That everything is always going along to a phrase or rhythm from a song that got hold of us. Testament to how little silence we allow or is allowed by the culture; and how willing our brains to sing.  All the while a song was in the background of her inner dialogue.  She reviewed the talk she had with the cook in front of the Pink Tea Cup.  He took her order on the street then went back to the kitchen.  She took a virtual tour of the place in her mind.  Strands of thoughts and singing going on simultaneously.  Then the awareness of being aware of this came to her and how she listened for Jerry.  She wasn’t so tied to the one reality that she couldn’t also go along with his sleep talk as he was dying. 

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     Song comes through all the threads of thought, replayed conversations and observations.  She weighed the notion of life lived, whether it was good or fulfilled. Jerry had asked her that question about her life. She failed him.  Didn’t open her heart as wide as she should have to answer. Now she continued the answer and wondered if there was enough time left to be wild in her imaginings and float and juggle all the images, experiences and stillness that captivated her. Is it the margins that run alongside the must dos, the necessities that seem so rich?   The allure of alleyways.  The bend away from main themes, direct sun and causal reality with its mathematical descents into the inevitable knowings and obvious bottom lines and outlines leave so little room for connection. 

     Alluring encounters in the stream of things feel deeper, as real as blood. But not so different from black tea with milk and sugar in the morning, her alleyway into the day. Until the ascent into the fundamental realm of the clock.  But it’s so early. It is, in a sense, time before time. Why is it that quiet is so beautiful and sounds such sweet centers of life?  How many mornings do we have left to live?  One never would have thought to ask about the afternoons.  It's the mornings Mrs. Scattergood always planned to wake early to write; to taste that time everyone says is the best part; wake early to feel the soft belly of the day. The day is a foal before it is framed in so many other ways and goes riding off before you can catch up to it.