It's always so quiet at The Grotto first thing on Saturday and Sunday when even the cacophony of chatter in my head sleeps in with the rest of the world. I'm never anxious on these mornings and always grateful that I'm a morning person living with a night owl.
Even Vinny, who is only mildly demanding on weekday mornings, seems to sense it's Sleep Late Day as he stretches lazily off his $80 chiropractic pillow1 only to burrow deep into the bedcovers I've just vacated so as to take full advantage of my residual body heat.
Later, the phone will ring and I'll have my Saturday morning chat with BFF, Acr0nym. Eventually, Lex will stir out of his man cave and start making his man noises. He'll likely come in and roust the cat off my bed. He'll want to talk to me too.
But, for the first few hours of this day, it's just me, quietly thinking, reading, taking mental and emotional inventory, and making notes.
I caught myself thinking just a bit ago, "I wish there was more time. I wish the time to write was there when I wanted it. There just never seems to be enough time."
I promptly followed that thought up by loading a fresh solitaire game up on my computer. *shaking head*
When I realized what I'd done, I closed the game unfinished and gave myself a stern talking to because I am rich with time. I have no human children and quite possibly the most congenial, undemanding fur kid in my neighborhood. I work 40 hours a week - rarely more, and have a partner whose expectations of me are so well-managed, nearly all of my personal time is my very own. We even have someone come in to clean once a month.
Don't hate me for that, OK? We aren't rich. We live well below our means - in a basement apartment (garden-level in polite company) - and drive 10-year-old cars. For us, having our home cleaned (lovingly by a friend in need of monetary assistance), is a splurge we're willing to make because it does free up more time for what we both love...writing.
I realize now it isn't more time I wish for it's more time selfishly uninterrupted I crave. Sensitive to noise, even the sound of the fan I keep running as white noise to drown out the city streets outside my window can be distracting...usually when I'm cold and want to turn it off but won't knowing full well what it sounds like without it's consistent whirring.
Oddly, noise doesn't bother me at night while I sleep. I sleep like the dead. It's only during waking hours when the voices are crowding around in my head and I'm constantly fighting to shove them aside to make room for my conscious thought. It's no wonder I'm always tired.
I am more inspired to write than perhaps I've ever been. There is a steady stream of ideas churning in the muddied waters of my life, building up and getting ready to break free. I feel myself wanting to withdraw from social obligations, pushing loved ones away to make room for me to unleash the floodgates...
And yet, I know too well just how much I'll want human interaction on the other side. I know just how hard I've worked to build and nurture friendships over these last 10 years and how easy it is to alienate people who genuinely love me if I decline just one invitation too many.
Balance. Patience. Discipline. These things lead to time uninterrupted. Even if that time is only on chilly Saturday mornings with the fan running. I can put socks and my robe on to keep warm.
Oh! There's Acr0nym calling *smile*. He's early. This will be one of the best parts of my day.
1. I bought the pillow for me but it fits his little black body so perfectly, I can't bear to take it back from him.