Listening To Onions

'field notes from ordinary days'

Today.

5:30 a.m.—a cherished hour.
Dark, quiet, still.

I listen.

Usual apartment sounds wake to heat turned up.
Radiators grunt. Walls snap—the pipes, I think, I hope!—in irregular rhythms.
The crackle of the fireplace, each pop, Puckish.

A lit candle sits in silence on my desk,
its flame calls to a wanderer.

I tap keys, softened clicks.
Gabriel’s Oboe and The Falls play.
Yo-Yo Ma.
His cello and bow create a sound
not of this world.

Attention must be paid.

Yesterday.

I tried writing the ‘weaver,’ the piece that haunts.
Only an inch forward. Darn.
Wait. Don’t force.
Listen for the release of what wants to be written.

I made vegetable soup instead.
Heavy clunks and scrapes—
a large cast-iron pot lifted onto the stove.

Soft sizzles rose from onions and garlic sauteed in olive oil.
I inhaled the soothing aroma.
The knife chopped myriad vegetables, each its own rhythm,
some clunky, others muted and gentle.
I added them to the onions: celery, squash, zucchini—more.

Stirring the mixture, adding dashes of dill,
filled the apartment with soft, fragrant peace.

a heady bliss

The mixture simmered.
I listened to soft jazz,
and visited a poem I’ve been worrying.

Ah, no success. I put it aside.

Before I placed the jasmine rice in the pot,
the water came to a rapid boil, a small ocean roiling.

I smiled amusement.

The rice coasted into the water like tobogganing downhill—
swoosh.

Yesterday— listening, smelling, tasting—
living an inner rhythm.

Today, again.

The Tibetan bell sounded on the cell phone.
A gentle reminder: reconnect with my body—
breathe with awareness.

And listen.

Soon, ice crystals will hang suspended in the air.

The rush of winds whirl spirals,
sun dazzles—
diamonds dance.

‘Go Gently’ is a free publication.

Consider clicking the heart, even sharing—it all helps.
No matter how you subscribe, your presence here means the most.

Thank you for reading, and for staying.

—Lee Anne