The screen door doesn’t fit in its casing when it swells with November rain, so it slacks open. Every minute, every thirty seconds, a change in air catches the door, and it taps. Wooden door against porch railing. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
Normally, repetitious sounds rattle my nerves, but this morning, I find it comforting — this drum beat refrain like a heartbeat.
A vase of white-centered mums sit in front of me in a gaping-mouthed vase. Orange bread crumbs and mandarin orange strings from this morning’s breakfast sit in a happy pile next to me, gathered together, but not tossed.
Outside the crows caw across hundred year old trees. Overhead the dining room chandelier buzzes like it always does.
I’m not just light. I’m electricity. Don’t you see? Don’t you hear?
I press laptop keys with slightly too long fingernails, and the glasses of water left this morning on the dining room table dance.
I do not check my phone. I do not play music. I simply notice. I am alive.
Life pulses with good work and amble, abide and distract, joyful discovery and cloudy mystery, some steps forward and some more back.
I am content, and I am wanting. I am dreaming, and I am reacting. I am thankful, and I am seeking.
I recognize my need. I recognize my gifts. How they share the same pool, breathe the same air. How they live side by side.
Like me and the crumbs. Like the smiling mums and the slamming screen.
