Routines and Smells

I am now sitting outside in the back garden.  A fresh current of air is passing by.  Windows and doors are open.  Felt the need to have fresh air at home.

Routines for this summer.  Waking up, getting ready, enjoying breakfast whilst listening to whatever the others are listening to.  And later on, going out to get something to cook.  Looking at people, looking at myself.  How we all get in an out of places, as if we had a clear plan for the day and with little time to spare.  

More routines.  Writing and meeting, checking work.  Taking twins to parks or sports centres.  Answering emails and ensuring bills are paid.  Fighting with the delivery people.  Trying not to be too absorbed by what I read.  Catching up on TV series or movies that were there.  Reading a couple of books now and then.  

Smells of quietness and change.  Now thinking that this rest of year things will be different.  Not wanting to have much of things outside my control.  Accepting perhaps that this is an illusion.  Dry air, humid air.  Quietness.  Noise I do not normally take the time to listen to.  

This summer I have tried to let go of worries and deadlines whenever possible.  I have partially succeeded.  Different routines and different smells, that seems to have helped.  

Rhythms of life

 What if after all these years, thinking that we know it all, we come to the realisation that we don't? 

World of wars and droughts now, presenting it as it probably always was.  Or has been.  Only that we did not want to see it...

World of cycles, multitudes and gatherings, isolation and fear.  Coming to a foreign country and living for decades.   Summer makes me happier. And thoughtful.  So I write.  And remember, to then forget.  The sun shines, the rubbish is there...

There is a rhythm that I can now hear.  Less of a timetable and more of an exploration.  Days go by and we bathe in the sun, we go places.  We buy food and slide downwards in the leisure centre.  We walk and think less of work and more of whatever else.  You and I read.  And you keep reading.  The rhythm of long nights and less clothes.  Of hope and rediscover.   Of pictures and nice meals.   Slow rhythms.  Rejuvenating.  Friends are away, families too.  

And there is one I do not want to hear, or maybe I cannot hear enough.  That of performance and production. The one that is difficult not to listen to, because there is always something to do.  As if I needed to prove myself time and time again.  Fifty or so years and still I dance to this rhythm's tune and cadence.   One more thing here, another there.  Not enough.  Not good enough. 

Country of constant production.  The drumbeats start early.  They go unnoticed until an email arrives.  Questions and more questions.  That dreaded meeting.  Commitments and action plans.  Delays.  Commitments fulfilled and others not so much.  The brain remembers.  A coffee is needed to spark me into action.  Like a train whose sounds one can still remember even after the train passes.  Dig, dig, dig.

And subtly the writing comes back.  Taking the hand off the keyboard and letting it move freely.  No need to know exactly where it is going.  Anxious deliberation: What should I write about today?  Do I need to?  Sparks of life come all at the same time.  A rhythm without rhythm.  A routine that just emerged.  A story to be told, one root and several branches.  My rhythm, no need to follow others'.