The moon tonight was a misty crescent sliver and I listened to the slick whoosh of traffic on a rare evening walk. Then kids and parents cheering, screaming and laughing at school ballfields, the "poom!" of foot hitting soccer ball, owl who-whoing and me enjoying being alone with my thoughts, emptying my brain of the day's tension.
Walking down Mayfair at the end of the walk, dusk descending and the traffic noise gone was as good as taking a very deep breath, closing eyes and just leaning back.
This week, half over, has been a good one for recording sights and sounds.
Monday, I experienced the doctor's office shuffle. I sat, slightly dozing, in the waiting room. Office in a new building with lovely light and view. All patients spoke to the receptionist in quiet tones, she responding cheerfully.
What impressed on my brain was the shuffling kind of sound feet make at the doctor's office. No one moves fast, no one has the expectation of speed or efficiency (tho my doctor's practice is a model for both) and so the rather forlorn attitude of supplicants, hoping for attention sooner rather than later. All conversation, with the exception of the banter among the office staff in their fortress, is muted.
Tuesday, early, I turned off the beeping alarm, pulled on a bathrobe and began the morning's light chores. Pick up paper, turn on coffee, fill pets' dishes. Get ready to walk the greyhounds.
I had just gotten up and was peering outside from the front door to scope out the newspaper's location on the driveway. A house sparrow perched on the railing around the front stoop, chirping away in the grey morning. Twist heard it, too, ears perched forward, nose close to the window.
The little bird chittered away for a few seconds, then flitted off. In the grey morning, it sounded so clear, so sweet.
I like those moments, especially to start the day. They are like anchors. When you feel as if you are flailing in the demands of the moment, it is lovely to have a calming place to check in to.
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