Written on 05-16-2020
The same room, day after day. There is a view from the window: A small segment of the sloping roof on the neighbor’s house, and, at the corner, a drainpipe. The edge of the gutter that I can see is not a straight line, but wriggles about in an interesting warped way, and it is spotted with rust. Below it a white wall. Looking beyond the edge of the sloping roof I see other buildings. The next neighbor’s tin-roofed shed, where he raises chickens, and keeps a parakeet who squawks and jabbers, especially in the late afternoon. Between the two buildings, I can see a segment of redwood tree. The segment alone is taller than any other tree in the neighborhood, but it isn’t even half of the redwood’s height. I am often enchanted by how easily the branches sway in the breeze, contrasting the thick and sturdy trunk, and how the only sky I see consists of small patches of blue between the foliage. The shape of the patches fluctuates as the tree sways about, as if the sky were alive — a collection of wriggling amoebas struggling to escape the twigs.
I am like a wriggling amoeba myself, caught in the web of this small room, using what skills I have of memory and observation and reflection to reach out into the world beyond, or, hopefully, more deeply into the world within.
The smaller the cell, the deeper the reflection.
I am living in a raindrop that reflects the sky.