Bkbckhcyc in vhc tv ndy
I like those little zingers you come across in books. Just that one line or two that sticks to you like spaghetti on a wall. I rarely remember the exact words themselves, but I remember the gist, the image, the feeling, all those rippling thoughts that spread out from it. I got around to A Room With A View. Of course Mr. Beebe’s comment that if Lucy ever started living like she played piano things were going to get exciting was going to stick. I suppose it was meant to really, meant to make you turn your eye to your own way of living, but I thought it was cleverly stuck in there.
Do I live like I play the piano? Figuratively, I mean. Or maybe not. Since I don’t actually play, I could say I live better. 🤭 My first thought was no. I think because I’m so contradictory and so often feel like I’m half in this world and half in another, like I’m missing pieces I should have, my first feeling is that I’m not right or solid so nothing I do can be either. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not. One of those things I’ve accepted I’ll never really know. But Lucy just played with her heart is all. Her real imperfect self, and when I look at it like that, I think I’m partway there at least. I live quietly. I could live a little larger, a little fuller. An authentic and simple love fills my days, love for a thousand tiny things that flutters around my head like little butterflies. But that’s what I take in. I feel with my whole heart. My soul has its nose pressed to the windows of my eyes. While I can say that what I let out comes from my real imperfect self, it is set outside my walls gently, hesitantly, more with a pride that I managed to open the door than a fondness for what I’ve loosed. There is my failing. There is what dims the light of anything I have to give, I suppose. I can open the door, but my threshold so often contains that exuberant joy that Lucy was too unaware of to fear. Lucy danced freely while I worry too much about the rhythm and so become stiff and unnatural.
I’ve known this in some shape or form for a time now, but that’s what these little zingers give us, another click of the kaleidoscope dial. Shake up the colors enough, and maybe someday the shapes will make sense. For all I may find myself wanting, I still think the journey’s delightful. 🤷♀☺
Do I live like I play the piano? Figuratively, I mean. Or maybe not. Since I don’t actually play, I could say I live better. 🤭 My first thought was no. I think because I’m so contradictory and so often feel like I’m half in this world and half in another, like I’m missing pieces I should have, my first feeling is that I’m not right or solid so nothing I do can be either. Maybe that’s true. Maybe it’s not. One of those things I’ve accepted I’ll never really know. But Lucy just played with her heart is all. Her real imperfect self, and when I look at it like that, I think I’m partway there at least. I live quietly. I could live a little larger, a little fuller. An authentic and simple love fills my days, love for a thousand tiny things that flutters around my head like little butterflies. But that’s what I take in. I feel with my whole heart. My soul has its nose pressed to the windows of my eyes. While I can say that what I let out comes from my real imperfect self, it is set outside my walls gently, hesitantly, more with a pride that I managed to open the door than a fondness for what I’ve loosed. There is my failing. There is what dims the light of anything I have to give, I suppose. I can open the door, but my threshold so often contains that exuberant joy that Lucy was too unaware of to fear. Lucy danced freely while I worry too much about the rhythm and so become stiff and unnatural.
I’ve known this in some shape or form for a time now, but that’s what these little zingers give us, another click of the kaleidoscope dial. Shake up the colors enough, and maybe someday the shapes will make sense. For all I may find myself wanting, I still think the journey’s delightful. 🤷♀☺
