A spider pauses in its journey across the ceiling, as seen through the spinning blades of the fan. A band I don’t know is streaming through the speaker, and Momma is reading one of the llama llama books to the Boy in the other room. One dog is curled up on her bed, the other, spent from frantically chasing her tail, mills about aimlessly.
Just another Monday night.
Yesterday I saw this installment of my recent favorite comic strip:
I near immediately posted it to the facebook, accompanied by a note saying that I would take a hiatus for a bit, with the intention of doing something more productive with my evenings. Like writing for example. Even if it is about the uninteresting doings of a Monday night here at the homestead.
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Earlier in the day yesterday, I took the dogs to what may well be my favorite local haunt. It is a place that I have explored frequently and am comfortable enough there now that I have started being able to settle in to noticing the little things, those finer details that put a different spin on the world. In changing my perspective in such a way, I have always found myself able to shut out the clamor of the bigger things. Focusing on random details in nature has always been something that brings me peace.
Today after work I went for another walk at a different haunt, one that I spent much more time at in the days and weeks after first moving to this area. A very different sort of place, it is one that, while often peaceful, always seems to foster more distraction than the other. Such that on my walk today, I had to look for the details.
The commonality is that both are “rivers” one aptly named “Little” and the other a fork of it. I like the relation, but in many ways, the two could not be farther apart. One is subtle and winding, meandering through the flats, hidden in the tall grasses, and tamed by beaver. The other is boisterous and rambunctious as it tumbles down out of and through the mountains.
Neither of them are the big rivers that I am used to. Once I stopped wishing that they were, I was able to settle in to appreciating them for what, who, they are. I am able to stop and sit or crouch on the bank and surrender to the flow, letting the current run through me. Able to listen to their voice to better hear the important things. The little things. The details that too often get lost in the shuffle of this thing we call “life”.
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Poor pig is described as the stupid character of that comic strip. Granted, he is often portrayed as bumbling and confused, but I rather prefer to think of him as simple. Simple, not in a demeaning, outdated sense, but in that, like Pooh, he lives in a different version of our world; sees it in a different light. I very often sympathize with rat; with his snide, cynical, crass outlook on the world. I would like to emulate goat; the steady, somewhat disheartened, but often enlightened relationship he has with his surroundings. Yet, most often I seem to identify with pig.