Never too late. To pay attention, notice, sense awareness. A little each day. I wake. The water runs across my fingers. I linger for a little longer. Different from yesterday. I carry on. Another moment, I stop myself as I'm walking towards the kitchen. I turn, and turn again. And carry on. A Byrd's song comes to mind and fades back into time. Some porridge, stirring, I make a different movement with the wooden spoon, different from yesterday, stirring a thought, stirring a potion, this motion. The outside thermometer says 49°, somewhere around 10° in another currency. The thermometer came from USA, my parents had it outside their house in Maryland and then in Florida. It's dark beyond that, silhouettes of autumn trees, the Fall, a hint of blue far away. I pour a glass of water, cool water from the new fridge. The glass, we seem to have had the same glasses since we met. We saw similar glasses being used in the Hampstead Theatre the other week as we walked by on our way for a ravioli at Carluccios. These thoughts embedded in feelings, a sense of things. Embedded, embodied. Unspoken. Unwritten.
But more than this.
This practise of paying attention carries on into the day, a walk. I look around.
Like photographs? Not quite. Quiet. The photograph is like a moment plucked from consciousness. I press the button. In many ways I think it would be good to draw, to write, to play, music, to sing, to dance, to walk, to move, to feel something happening. Beyond pressing the button. And so. I wake, I move, and in many ways, know, I need to keep moving my body, just to feel alive. Not to do this or that, just to move. And practise noticing these movements through the day, now and then, here and there, a few seconds. Paying attention to these little articulations. A way of feeling thinking.
Earlier, about an hour ago, I wrote in my notebook answers and answering to my self. I got stuck there, drunk some water, got a coffee, and the writing carried on in this way.