Sweet dad jay is coming home tomorrow. And while there is a big to-do with the cleaning and the cabinet stocking, it has occurred to me that it is also a last chance to enjoy some quiet.
When I was younger, my dad used to tease me when I talked too much (= all the time). He’d sing “Silence is golden” in his warble-y, deep voice. And while he was no Frankie Valli, I got his meaning. I’d proceed to girl-punch him in the gut, and pout for a minute, before continuing my story that never ended. He’d laugh and sing again.
Of course, it’s nice to be heard. I find it redemptive to explain myself. But eventually, when all is said and explained, dad j. and Frankie do have a point. And really, on a visceral level, I’ve noticed that the things I deeply enjoy of late are all accompanied with a definite quiet, a stillness.
Morning tea. Gigi’s quick dash outside. Window outlines appearing brighter, earlier, through the curtains every morning. Rainy days. Baking. Painting. Writing.
Yesterday, the latest edition to my mini windowsill garden bloomed. The Lewisia Elise:
This morning, I discovered it had bloomed a friend:
Somehow these events seem related. Also, these sights and smells currently fill one corner of the garden:
Even the book I’m reading is quiet. ‘The Remains of the Day,’ by Kazuo Ishiguro. I feel as if this is my last day to read it as it is – a stunning drive through English countryside, a narrative made up entirely of recollections. I can’t imagine enjoying it more than I do today.
Dad jay’s birthday is this Sunday, Father’s Day. And while I bemoan the loss of some of my solitude, I have a feeling there will be plenty of opportunity for beauty and joy, and with little need of words for them. Also, there may be singing, but only of the happy birthday variety.