Take time to listen. Sit with pen and paper and write down all you hear. ALL.
I was sitting at my kitchen table the other evening, sewing. The apartment to myself except for sleeping pets. I suddenly became very aware of my surroundings.
I had, what I can only call, a Dostoyevskian moment– perhaps colored by the fact that someone in the neighboring apartment building was singing a Russian folk song. My vintage kitchen setting felt timeless and time-full.
So I wrote.
The slip of the thread through stuffing and cloth
The pen scratching on the paper
The scrape of my fleshy hand along the foolscap
The knock on the door downstairs
The wind through the trees
The airplane roar
The slam of a car door
The chanting of a Russian folk song
The bang of the garage door
The scream of a cat
The rain in the puddles
The footsteps upstairs
The sound of a car along wet pavement
The creaks in the building
The breath of my dog
The parrot adjusts
The stillness of the kitchen
The roar of the ocean
The sounds in my belly
The squeal of a broken fanbelt
The footsteps of a person in the lane
The drips from the gutter
The creak in my chair as I adjust
The sound of existence- the physical weight of it on the ears
The neighbour upstairs runs water in their kitchen sink
Pots and pans and drawers
The gentle hisses of the parrot
The scratching of my fingers on my jeans
The sound of awareness.
This little kitchen. On this large globe.
The clang of a text message.
“On my way home.”
The rub of my fingers along my chin under my lip
The fridge kicks in
“I am going to Safeway to buy a few snacks.”
“I’ll meet you there!”
I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there – that is living.
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov