I told him I’m not the ‘talk every day’ kind of girl. That’s probably an unusual thing for the girl to say. Usually it’s the guy, the guy who doesn’t want to talk every day. “Why? What’s there to talk about?”
I’ve never really understood how folks could talk endlessly, every day? Text or chat once, or even twice a day. About what? (Of course, I do consider myself a bit of an introvert.) Truth is, I wasn’t sure I could keep up a conversation that regularly.
I’ve stayed away from the news, so couldn’t discuss that. I don’t have any projects ongoing, so couldn’t share about that. Though I could go on about how uncomfortable it was not to have any projects going on.
So, I needed a few days for stuff to pile up, events to gather, maybe there would be some high drama I’d be able to share.
As to the idle chit chat, that was just not for me.
But yesterday, as I reminded him that we’d already talked three days in a row (oh my!), he told me he just liked hearing my voice, it didn’t really matter what we talked about. He was perfectly content listening to the latest about my family, what I’d written in my morning pages, or about the adventures of buying a washing machine because my old one was on its last legs.
For his part, if we didn’t talk, he’d text me weather reports, he doesn’t live in Los Angeles. “20 degrees and falling, we’ve got snow.” I’d respond with, “It’s a balmy day here in Santa Monica. I’ve got the heat on because it dropped down to 62!”
Yesterday he called and left me a message, an adventure he’d had with his pill bottle lost in the bowels of his car. His son found it by accident, “Hey Dad, is this yours?” He left me the details of that story, and I smiled when I heard it.
Though a silly tale, it connected us across the miles.
Sometimes, I worry I’m not living a big enough life. Huge things are happening around the planet, but I don’t know if I’m making a difference. I don’t have huge dreams I’m striving towards. I’m not changing the world enough, either with my landscaping or my creative works. For days on end, I’ll journal about seemingly petty things – getting my window fixed, the thrill of paying down my credit card, where to go for dinner with a friend. And there is a dreadful sense I’m letting my life slip away, sand running through my fingers.
But this morning as I was listening to a meditation, I started humming. I found myself fascinated by the sound of my voice echoing in my head, almost as if I were inside a tree and the sounds were reverberating around me. And then I ran my fingers across my face, along my brow, down my nose, across my lips. I could feel my fingers touching my skin, but I could also feel my skin being touched by my fingers.
As I journaled about it afterwards, I recognized the significance of that experience. It was right in front of my face. Literally, my life was right in front of my face. To be felt, experienced in all its intimate detail: the slight bump on my nose, the texture of my eyebrows, the topography that was my cheeks, my chin. My life, right in front of my face.
So, I’m easing up a little on the pressure for the big life, the big dream, the big adventures. I’ve had them, and have no doubt there will be more. But this in-between time is precious as well. I do not want to view it as the wasted time between the big events. Rather, let me be present for all of it. Be it that weather report from 2,000 miles away that builds the bridge between us, or the delicacy of a daisy petal on my finger, or the beyond irritating second flat tire I’ve gotten in three weeks…
This is the life right in front of my face.
So, I invite you to breathe in the scent of the salty sea, purr at the sound of your love saying your name, stop to watch the sparrows flirting in the trees, and celebrate that you are here, in this time, in this place.
To your journey.