I have the benefit of all kinds of keen insights as I lay recuperating in bed. The strong light of a summer morning spills through the tall bank of windows beside me. The ceiling fan beats air conditioned air, churning it until it settles down upon me. Bathed in warm, yellow light, I am insulated from the summer heat that bakes the grass on the hillside beyond my window.
Throughout each day, my thoughts wander as aimlessly as a small, bare-footed boy with a fishing pole. They may alight upon a sparkling, bright revelation that promises to infuse meaning into circumstance. I walk around the notion, studying, then manipulating it. With a sudden flash, I am there. Standing on the precipice of understanding. Ready to take notes for other travelers. I enjoy that moment with a delicious sense of being connected to something greater than me. These insightful and uplifting moments of perceptivity command an intelligence that astounds me. Then, remarkably, I fail to write down these divine insights, postponing the moment of inscription too long. Like a spent display of fireworks, all that is left is smoke, the stench of sulfur and the memory of something truly grand. I have nothing more to show for my genius than a blank slate. I have learned that without benefit of pen and paper to plot the geometry of thought, it gradually slips away. I am left with the same fading feeling as the inchoate moments after a dream, the details sharp, but surreal, leaving me haunted for the remainder of the day.
Gradually, shadows of late afternoon begin their dance on my bedroom walls. It is that time when light fades from buttercream to dishwater grey. Still, the blades of the fan make their lazy rotation endlessly circulating the cooled air. There is, settled on my feet, the weight of a quilt, hand-stitched by my mother for my twenty-second Christmas. The colorful pattern of cotton squares has faded with the years, but it’s love and memories are intact. I reach down and pull it over my legs. The evening draft has grown too cool .