Some days I wake up into where I am as though I’ve never noticed before how truly lovely it is. At the moment it’s here where I come for first pre-dawn coffee, where I take note of the morning sky, the quality of first light. Here where the tone of my day is set.
This room is full of a hundred versions of red, all rich and glowing in sunlight. The christmas cactus blooms in apricot and peach, an aloe grows like a prayer – from their red and green pots they drink in the sun. A water glass flashes light from the old kist. It’s there for the cat to drink from, which she does with particular ceremony on sunlit mornings. I can see and hear the wind, and the starlings, the sparrows, gulls, crows.
Every room in my apartment, every tree on my walk, every space in my studio has the capacity to take my breath away, when I’m awake & clear enough to actually see it. A particular, resonant view of the moment and place I’m in: Oh, this is beautiful.
As you read through the story Little, Big for the first time, it dawns upon you that one of the characters is the old house in which the Drinkwaters live. Rooms that should be perfectly ordinary, are not. In fact there are far more rooms inside than could possibly fit the available space described by its exterior. All is not what it seems; what appears to be just little is in fact marvelously, astonishingly, big.
Written by John Crowley in 1981, many editions out there. Give it to readers you love who appreciate a magical inner world. For the sake of Crowley’s story and your future delight I can’t tell you a whit more than I have. It’s a book I ration for myself as I did Tolkein, as a kid.
What I’m learning to understand is that the illusion of smallness and insignificance applies everywhere; the inside of us is far, far bigger and more resonant than anything outside. Everything begins, and ends, in the internal way we perceive ourselves in and of the world.
We’ve been isolating inside our lives and houses this year, will continue so through the holidays. If 2020 were a character in our collective story, then there would be many many versions of possibility inside, waiting to be seen in a lit, resonant moment. Some look bleak indeed. Others, for certain, are breathtakingly beautiful.
If it’s a choice, and I think it is, I choose the latter.
So there is the tone for my day.
I believe there’s a lunar eclipse happening in the wee hours of tomorrow (November 30). Might mean a nap this afternoon, since I think I’d like to see that if possible, from the evening window.