I am in a strange and happy little place this morning.
I have put the kettle on, brewed a pot of Lady Grey tea, a dark pekoe tea with hints of orange and, for most, entirely too much sugar. My nose is remembering the scent of breakfasts past, of a toasted english muffin slathered with natural peanut butter that goes from too-solid to slippery, uncontainable, dripping off the corner of your mouth faster than you can work your tongue around it, seconds after it hits the warm surface of the crumb.
I may make it today. I may not. I don’t know yet.
I have been on a reading binge. I have noticed this trend as I’ve gotten older. Not just binge reading, but binge anything. I go through phases like this, where I only want to do one thing and damn the rest. Writing is always in the background, though, a silver thread that never leaves the fabric, but the other colors wax and wane, brighten and dull all around it.
It might be a taste of something. Pop, especially Coca Cola, is something I’m terrible about. I will go weeks without drinking it except for the odd glass and then I will consume it like am gulping air, can after can, until it no longer tastes good but strange and metallic and unsatisfying. But it might be a kind of food, like freshly-made salted popcorn or creamy and rich homemade macaroni and cheese. If I don’t make it, I think about it, and other food, no matter how good, will not appease me. When I finally do make it, I gorge, satiate myself, and move on, it’s hold over me gone.
It might be sleeping, where the body just wants to lay down, to stretch, to slumber. I can’t get enough. But now the pendulum has swung the other way, and I find myself struggling to go to sleep at the right hour, for the right number of hours. So like today, I am awake too early and sipping my tea, waiting for the caffeine to lift me up the rest of the way. I have never learned to sleep in.
It might be fiction and if it is, it might be a type of fiction, either form or genre, that I favor over all else. It might be non-fiction, like writing how-to books, or it might be just general information on any topic that’s struck my fancy, randomly discovered when I wasn’t looking. Fiction turns me inward, non-fiction turns me outward. I should try to find a balance, but instead I just swing between the two.
And that’s where I am. Reading binge. Non-fiction. The inspirational and the historical. I am halfway through the second book of Glen Cook’s Black Company series, but finding my attention pulled in several directions. Instead, I am finishing Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down The Bones (one of the few books I read and reread, finding something different and personal each time I do), enjoying a skulk through the halls of 15th Century Italy, and flirting with the philosophies of Buddhism. I am an omnivorous and opportunistic reader; perhaps spring has wakened the hunger?
I’m journaling, too. More than usual. Which sounds to my ear as if I mean that is a bad thing, which it isn’t. At all. I reconnect when I journal, either here or in a book. I am grounded. I am safe, and aware. And this all feeds back to writing, strengthens the silver thread and brings alive patterns in the larger cloth. A word written is never wasted.
But I should finish, should put on clothes, finish the tea, brave the early morning before it isn’t all that early. I’ve groceries to buy for two nights worth of special dinners. Since when did I become a hostess? This is a new, unexpected development. But good. Only, it means I have to take care of my time. Words may not be wasted, but time certainly can be.