Night and Day

Words are like pieces of sea glass.

Decided to try blogging now instead of at 11, or midnight, or after.

But I know my post won't be as long, or probably as pondering, b/c I have to move onto many other things, big and little. Dog, dress, email, work, phone, drive, mail, bank, walk, shower, teeth, hair, pack, clean. All waiting. [And that doesn't count hospital, b/c if Sis goes today, I might skip it. Not sure.]

I think I like writing at night because it's a treat I look forward to at the end of the day, after all other responsibilities have been tucked into bed. I can be reflective.

Sea Glass
The writing is pure pleasure--even if it's about something sad, it feels really good and capable to paint a picture with words, choose them carefully, polish them, too. And it's so freeing to fly over a keyboard, not painstakingly move pen or marker over page.

Maybe it's not a picture. Maybe it's a jar of beach glass or worn pebbles from the sea. You put some in and then exchange them, piece by piece, for bluer, greener, cloudier, clearer, rippled, ridged, sharper or softer-edged pieces. Pieces that capture the walk you took, the day you had, how the sand felt under your feet. Pieces that capture the beauty. [I don't do that nearly enough.] And thanks to the ease of editing on a computer, you can change and change and change those pebbles until the jar contents look just as you want. It could go on into eternity, but then you look at the digital time on the corner of the screen and realize you better put a final period and sign off.

Marriage Clock
H. doesn't really like me blogging late. It's true, I'm often up til 1 or 2.

I know you, Alice, he says. And as long as I've known you, you've always been in bed by ten or eleven. This isn't you. Something's going on.

I know, I'm coming. I'll be there in a minute.

Repeat cycle a few times. H. asking and me saying one more minute.

Ali! Please come to bed. I guess even The New Yorker isn't enough after a while. But I thought he said I talked too much. I do love to talk.

Everything has its price. I'm often slipping under the covers late, not getting to touch base with H. as much about his day or his hopes or worries--or mine. I'm also not reading much, since bedtime was my favorite time to read. One thing about being on Cape Cod for the next week or so [starting tomorrow night, if the stars are in their courses] is that our house doesn't have an internet connection.

I'll give some thought to better timing.

The beautiful image above is from pewterandsage.blogspot.com.