Today I am a recorder of the comfortable and mundane. Miracles can be had in the folded curtains of empirical reality. I usually bypass them in a drive-by assassination, oblivious to the moment.

Today is holy in the motes of hanging dust, the Sunday morning calliope of sunlight through venetian blinds. It varies to a silent beat, variegated by a shifting filter of turning leaves.

To unblind my mind, I try to see things as though it’s the first time.

The secret play life of the cat manifests like a response to confirm my thoughts. She bounds in a sudden rush and stops in front of me as if caught. She sharpens her claws, pulling up the carpet, punctuating her spotlight.

I unpeel another onion skin layer of deafness, the hidden gauze of what has carried me here, the gauze I am wrapped up in.

In the next layer I hear the crick of the lazy-boy. Steve’s head moves with little knitting motions as he scans the lines of articles on his laptop. He picks up his coffee. “OK,” he says for a reason only known to himself, and gently clicks his keyboard. Then a sip slurp of coffee. Then more clicking. Outside the window, a small dog barks with the particular scruffy hoarseness of small dogs.

My peripheral ear hears the cat bound on the coffee table to lay on the sofa next to me.

I’m tempted to think that this is a microcosm, a little swirl repeated around the world, that we’re moving on our little edge of the filigree lace, the lazy spun moment by moment of it. This Sunday, I’m almost convinced there’s a God.

In outer space the Sunday morning traffic is hushed. The birds are muted. The symphony of domesticity. The cat sways her tail in my peripheral vision.

It feels like a pattern– from the twitch of the cat’s tail to the click of our keyboards, from the pound pound pounding of silent sun to the calm drum roll thrum of the moment’s particular exigencies.

The traffic breathes outside the window as though a sigh, a gasp. Like call and response. How easy it would be to get carried away with this pattern and think that God is talking specifically to me. But Steve and I are just swaying grasses, the cat and I are swaying grass. We’re knit together in an interlocking causality where a comfortable mood is shared by three.


4 Responses

  1. Wait a minute, is your clock out of whack? Yours says 3:53 pm. Mine says 10:56 am. I set it by the Rush Limbaugh radio.

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