A rainy saturday morning I sit on the porch in my pyjamas. I have the thought that I should get dressed and then decide against it giving myself the treat of idleness. Idle attire. That is what saturday mornings are for, particularly rainy ones. Ella Fitzgerald's voice wafts through the open door of the house and I am thinking that this is the best way to listen to jazz music. Sitting outside smelling the rain smells, and hearing it move through the house, around tables and chairs, through doorways and out into the rain. It feels secondhand, antique, the way an old stereo system sounds as it plays a record. Like an echo. Old houses were meant to hold jazz music, they were meant to have it move through them, shifting the thick wooden beams that hold it together. It is what keeps them alive, stops them from falling to the ground. This old house lives for it. It always feels happier with music from the 20's and 30's.
I watch as a hummingbird with an irridescent green head and bright flourescent orange cheeks drinks from the red blooms of a flowering shrub. It is a mere three and a half feet from me. I sit stiffly staring at it for several minutes, so rare to see them this close up. They are like large bees, wings making noticable buzzing sounds. How lucky i feel.
Posted by kerismith at June 18, 2005 11:32 AMYou must love a very young Ella Fitzgerald.
Posted by: eliane on June 20, 2005 11:03 PMKeri - sounds like a morning of heaven. I love mornings like that. The smell of rain is amazing!!
Posted by: Jen on June 20, 2005 10:09 AMWhat a nice entry. I sure could use a morning of idleness.
Posted by: Jenn on June 20, 2005 07:00 AMLovely words.
Now I'll always have a little literary nook to climb into of a morning: "the gift of idleness". I think it's an especially difficult gift to give oneself, if, as is the case for me, one finds it difficult to see one's successes and how hard you've worked to be where you are. Because I find it hard to see where I'm going, I don't know when it's okay to take my hands off the reins. I don't *feel* lucky, though I know I am: I can see my way clear to being creative, and I can, at least intellectually, see the value of the kind of success I *do* have, rather than the more worldly kind I might vainly pursue. Your writing reminds me that only by letting go of the reins will I be able to see which direction I really want to go in. What does that mean? Doing what I feel like doing? Being idle? Being still?
That hummingbird has to work a lot harder than me, but it seems to know what it's doing.
Posted by: Aesop on June 20, 2005 05:57 AMdelicious words.
Posted by: andrea j on June 19, 2005 06:33 PMi love to set outside and really notice the world, it always makes everything feel ok again
Posted by: Pam on June 19, 2005 06:02 PMI feel very much the same about my little edwardian apartment in Sydney.
Lovely post. That 'lucky' feeling must be in the air; I recently posted my own feelings about being so very lucky.
http://storms.typepad.com/booklust/2005/06/lucky.html
Posted by: patricia on June 18, 2005 06:22 PMI an picture you sitting there and it is a fine and reaffirming picture. Thank you.
Posted by: Marchal on June 18, 2005 05:41 PMYour thoughts and observations are always a treasure to read. I agree that old homes need jazz music and every home needs a little bit of Ella!
Posted by: Michele on June 18, 2005 02:25 PMBeautiful Saturday morning. Sounds remarkably like mine. :)
Posted by: Rebecca on June 18, 2005 12:46 PMBeautiful words. Thank you for sharing.
Posted by: robin on June 18, 2005 12:24 PM