The late afternoon sun pouring through the windows makes it feel much later than five, but I suppose that the crisp fall air adds to the almost tangible sleepiness in the townhouse right now. Not that the much-welcomed cooler air on its own invites slumber, but when one dons the long cotton shirts and loungewear and blankets necessary to maintain proper circulation when autumnal breezes have taken hold, sleep seems inviting and could always be around the corner, just past your next thought. But the sun is hitting one of the large pumpkin spice candles, and the cheerful aroma is enough to keep me awake for the time being.
On the dining room table, festive with fall gourds resting in the colonial trough that serves as a centerpiece, lies treasures won in the course of yesterday’s errands. I managed to spend my entire birthday Border’s gift card in one round, mostly on – you will not believe this – Christmas music. I’ve been developing a list of holiday CDs for some time mentally, and this list actually made it to paper this year, and I decided to use the resource of the gift card as well as the fact that the Christmas music section is much better stocked in October than it will be in December. So the stack of CDs is sitting on the table, waiting to be tucked away into the closet so we won’t be tempted to play them until after Thanksgiving. I will confess that I bought my first Christmas present this weekend, so while Sarah is still well ahead of me, I am not to be wholly outdone.
Other treasures include two books, one of which is All The King’s Men, which I should’ve read years ago, and the first seventy pages of which have already been poured over and found quite worthy. The second is The Customs and Etiquette of Ireland, a short volume which I trust I will have time to peruse many times between now and when I board the plane for the Green Isle. Whenever that may be.
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Yesterday afternoon I waited to meet Sarah and Felicity at the independent coffee shop on the end of Eastern Market. I had procured what they call a “mochacino” from said establishment, which was in most respects like a mocha from more well-recognized coffeehouses, but lacked anywhere close to the same amount of sugar. As I sipped the drink, wrapping the fingers of both hands around the cup for warmth despite it being broad daylight, I concluded that less sugar was better for me, but would taste notably better. Sarah tells me the coffee in
Three musicians have been playing classic jazz since I came into earshot of this corner. The drummer, keyboardist, and bassist are clearly having fun, and chat among themselves as they would if they were catching up with one another at the table across the way with coffee in their hands instead of instruments. No one can hear what they are saying above the speakers, but they laugh constantly. As do the children who are dancing on the sidewalk.
Everything seems more vivid in the fall. Maybe it’s because the sky is so blue. Every individual seems to stand out today, just slightly larger than life. Their expressions seem not exaggerated, but are perhaps more animated. Maybe they are just as refreshed as I am to have the haze of late summer finally done away with – maybe they too are remembering how lovely it is to feel a cool breeze again, to see detail instead of just colors and shapes. But most people who come to Eastern Market on Saturdays at least seem happy, no matter what time of year it is.
I remember the fact that our house is in need of fresh flowers – the ones bought for our party are finally withering – and I see Sarah crossing the street.
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We anticipate this week to be very busy, or at least hope for it to be so we have a prayer of meeting our target adjournment, or at least getting out before the holidays. The boss is tired of naming post offices, and I am very tired of housing bills. But I am going to make a more concerted effort to not complain this week. I did too much of that last week. I thought it utterly maddening to be typing up vote recommendations while stuffing envelopes while dealing with dueling phone banks because our staff assistant was sent to the District Office to make their lives easier while reading tomorrow’s bills and deal with Senate staffers who were poking their nose into my projects only to find out there was no need to pursue the project further because the federal agency in question decided to reverse its decision in favor of the state.
But one of my English students inadvertently pointed out the error of my ways when we ended up discussing the issue of pride versus humility in class.
To summarize, the heavily accented voice inquired, “humility looks very much like humiliation. But it is different? Humility is something you choose. Humiliation is what someone does to you.”
I was struck by the astounding accuracy and simplicity of the observation. Yes, humility and humiliation are very different, and they are both a matter of choice. When I get stuck on being important or being right, I reject humility, and inevitably end up in humiliation because of that rejection. But if I can just release some of the “would like tos” on my to do list for the good of the group, and spend more time just doing things instead of stressing about the fact that I am doing them, then it won’t be so bad. My heart is less liable to be in the wrong place, and I will actually inch closer to being a servant instead of simply being content to be called one while throwing a temper tantrum about “my rights” on the side.
Sometimes I think I learn more about life from teaching English than my poor students learn about the language.
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The sun is almost down now, the air is cooler. I think it’s time to light that pumpkin candle.
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