Listening to children babble, waiting for their breathing to indicate sleep, so I can go upstairs and clean the dishes from their dinner. Spent the morning in similar fashion, baking a pie and walking around the block with a child while it cooled, hand in hand, talking about sidewalks and late-blooming lavendar, sighing in the windy breath of fall as it sent leaves past our ears.
Another hour or two and live bluegrass will be racking my body with a non-negotiable instinct to dance and move to beats and riffs. I'll be one in a crowd, a nameless face, a simple afficionado out for a night's fix of rhythm and social stimulus, albeit with a degree of anonymity.
Later still, in a place quiet enough that ears buzz with sound's absence, I'll have to talk myself out of just...one....more page of someone's fiction, or someone's historical record, whichever way you'll have it, fighting my eyelides for another second of artificially lit morning. Lay it on the floor, face-down-spine-up as I assume the same and the lights go off, except those twinkling through the stained glass to remind me that the city is still there, alive and well, though I sleep.
And tomorrow, I'll be someone's go-to, I'll travel across the face of this valley and back, I'll do this and I'll have done that, and things will be delivered and I will be liberated slowly, painstakingly from the bonds of a weighty to-do list.
Come Sunday, I'll travel to the desert for a week, to become further aquainted with that renegade love for climbing. I've warmed up the musculature, torn the pads from my fingers under the light of halogen bulbs, pressing off molded plastic, fighting gravity. Days in the gym will hopefully lend some grace to the coming days on the rock.
I was made for this. Life. All of it.