I awoke at 4:30 this morning. My cell was demanding to be charged and the birds were greeting the world in full song. (This was an instant reply of yesterday morning.) I awoke a second time to bright sunlight and warmth. There have been very few sunny days this spring and the combination of sun and warmth is as delicious as it is rare.
I am sitting in the office, surrounded by boxes and objects awaiting packing. The ficus tree by my desk has drifted over from its corner to peek out the window. Not that there is much of a view this time of year as the trees completely block any glimpse of the mountains and lake.
The office walls are increasingly bare as we pack family pictures. Our realtor insists we erase most traces of our history so that prospective buyers can imagine themselves into the space. As a person who has bought houses, I thoroughly understand this notion. At the same time, the experience of having to erase all traces of one’s life so that others may inhabit one’s home is uncannily familiar, one often discussed by my father’s side of the family. For them, these were issues of life and death.
Sitting here before the computer on this sumptuous summer day, listening to Bach’s solo cello suits, I am reminded yet again that experience is layered and complex, conscious and unconscious, and strangely repetitious.