Dearest love, let me pick up my guitar and start plucking strings in a soft strong unbroken line of interwoven pattern and melody and see what I come up with as I just sit here and strum the wood instrument sitting on my lap that serves as accompaniment to whatever I might choose to imagine as I sit here trying not to stop moving my fingers...
Up in the aerie at the end of the day, six o'clock, pitch black outside - or maybe not so much - there's a full moon rising I believe, and D was just out stringing lights on Thumbelina, who - or that, she's a Colorado Spruce - isn't so tiny anymore.
Darling, how are you? I hope all is well with you, that you've been having an enjoyable time. I had a very nice day myself. I had a wonderful session with you this morning, though it took a while to quiet my overactive mind, focus, get there, be present... which finally I did, much to my relief on more than one level, just quieting that part of myself that chatters away incessantly - is anywhere but where I need her to be, present with you at that instant. But then - it takes a bit, I'm used to it - something grabs hold, gets my attention, and I'm there and focused, and I feel it, and it works. So not instant though, that when I'm in that distracted scattered preliminary state I wonder if or how it ever worked for me, but I give it a bit of time, and eventually it does, as it ever did.
I had a wonderful afternoon. Meeting at Omi didn't happen - it turned out the place had been booked for a private afternoon event. But my writerly acquaintance and I winged it, arranged to meet elsewhere, at the foot of the city's main street, which is right on the waterfront, though you'd never know it, because views of the river are cut off at this crucial spot by both natural (a promontory) and manmade (stairs, a long-ago decision to site a park here) obstacles. Our thought had been to check out the statue of Saint Winifred there...
We met at the appointed hour, and were immediately thwarted from our Plan B -- shooed away by a parks crew setting up fireworks for the grand finale of this evening's Winter Walk. But I was able to point out the statue of Winifred to my friend, and we'll commune with her another day...
Anyway -- dearest, I'm fading fast, very tired -- to make a long story short, I had a lovely time with my writerly friend. She told me of her great affection for Gerard Manley Hopkins (she'd brought along a worn Penguin paperback of his poetry) and without consulting the volume even once, recited to me, his poem --- oh dearest, I am fading, the title escapes me. But I said - oh yes, I've read that poem, and I think I mentioned it in my blog once.
Then she and I strolled to another part of the waterfront, also parkland, this area at grade (as opposed to up on a rise), with scattered benches and picnic tables. Since we couldn't write about Winifred, we decided maybe we'd write about, perhaps, the lighthouse in the middle of the river here - or - so as not to be so strict about it - whatever else might catch our fancy. And so we did. It's a slightly jagged waterfront at this spot, which worked nicely for us. She sat at a bench or table on one little fractal point, I skirted upland around and back down and parked myself at a picnic table at another.
Afterward, we walked, we talked, we visited a lovely French cafe, where I had one of the most delicious lattes - flavorful, strong, not overly milky - and we split an almond croissant, and we talked some more, and I told her about you, and about 1.0, and this blog, and how I came to Winifred, or to Emily Dickinson for that matter (which I'm not quite sure the origins). And I felt very very happy to have a very very - well it was just 'very'
the cafe was warm & cozy
the coffee delicious
it was really great
and you know what? - there was an added advantage
that it was in person
a very, very nice refreshing change for me
with rich, beautiful textures
many kisses my love
sweet dreams you, this Saturday night