Sunday, April 17, 2011
It’s Sunday morning, and I’m sitting in Cosmic Pizza, writing. I’ve decided not to hike the hill today. It’s a disappointment, but my feet hurt. I’ve decided to give them a couple more rest days before I walk again.
Sitting here by the window, I make the most delightful discovery. I can have rich, mindful moments sitting right here. The window to my left is tall, floor to ceiling. Through it, I see the streets of downtown Eugene. They are typically quiet this morning. Not many cars go by, but there’s a steady stream of people, and they are all very Eugene: a man on a recumbent bike, towing his laundry in a burley trailer, a young couple wearing all black, both of them with hair of many, many colors.
And there is Steve. Steve stands outside Cosmic most mornings, playing the clarinet. I don’t know anything about him, only that his name is Steve and he plays the clarinet.
There are fresh blossoms on the downtown trees, and sunlight is bravely pushing against the cloud cover. I can feel the keys spring up and down under my fingers, and from the corner of my eye, I see the empty cup that held my Americano sitting on a saucer.
My attention goes down to the texture of the wood on the windowsill, and the smells of pizza cooking a few feet away. Then it spirals back, clear back to almost a year ago, when I was sitting at this very same table, looking out this very same window. I was high summer, and the boys and I were just back from the Fair. We were exhausted, and entranced at the same time. We drank root beer, and talked about next year’s costumes, where we would camp, who would come with us.
Back in the present, my thoughts slow down again, and there is only the window. And the coffee cup and the people going by.