A restless current has been itching its way toward me - trying to brush the back of my neck, to gently tug at my sleeves, trying to nestle itself. “Excuse me, sir, but I really do not have the time. I cannot welcome you at this hour.” I’m fresh out of coffee, and the cookies have gone stale. Quite a situation. I am in a hurry, I must do many things before I can welcome you inside.
After a few days, it was still there — waiting outside, occasionally knocking on the glass. Tap tap. Tap tap. My sincerest apologies, but my schedule is still full. What a terrible host I’ve been, breezing from one room to the next while tasks linger, half-done. Things need doing — need finishing. But when? Will they ever be finished? The tapping is getting louder. Louder still.
The clock had struck. A gentle chime brushed through the room. The door at long last opened, letting the spring air slip inside — and with it, him. He moved like a river threading through stone: calm, yet formidable. And somehow, I was the one who’d let him in — without even knowing.
The sun shone through the curtains, gently caressing the pale yellow wall. The pollen-filled air waltzed into the room, making the curtains dance in the breeze. Little old me was ready to take it steady, to take it slow. Yet, other plans were in motion - too many, in fact. A beginning could not be found, let alone an end. I wanted to do everything. To know everything.
On the coffee table a half read book is in constant watch over me, praying to be picked up and finished. Nearby, freshly washed clothes sit in a pile on the sofa, waiting to be folded.Amid the chores, a spritz of lavender feels necessary—something small to settle the air. The ironing board has become a permanent fixture in the middle of the living room. A couple of mismatched socks scattered in every room need to find their pair. A few dishes are waiting to be washed, while others sit idly on the dishrack. The living room needs some sprucing up - the flicker of a candle is all it needs. My laptop stays open, as though it too is waiting for inspiration to arrive.
In the never-ending cycle of home there is another which will forever beg to be discovered, yet never fully grasped - the literary think tanks which are a continuous thread of inspiration. They demand attention—time to find, to read, to sit with, to speak about, to challenge. So many have left behind a legacy so enduring that even just their names feel familiar.
Who is Joan Didion who I hear of so often? I sense she is someone beloved by the young and free writers. Funnily enough, I am not so young, and not so free. Should I set everything else aside to dive into her life’s work? There’s a quiet anxiety in not wanting to be left out. And Sylvia Plath - a name which is embarrassing to not have read at all. The will and desire to familiarize with them will always be there. Who they were - behind the pen, and their public persona.
Yet, I am one. The time I haven’t spent with their words, I’ve given to others’ work. There is little time to spend on this earth. I am but one person. However much I may try, their words are their words. Mine are my own. However much I am in awe, their tone is not mine.
It’s not only the literary voices lingering in the back of my mind - it is also the painters, the scientists, the style prophets, the culinary enthusiasts which always have something more to add. A palmful of wisdom, never quite within reach. On the contrary, it is an intricate web of knowledge only attainable with a clear focus, determination and devotion that asks for much more than passing interest. Interest so true, one dedicates his being to it.
My companion from before has been enjoying himself for some time in my abode - perched on my shoulders braiding my hair. No tea or cookies - such a simpleton. As too many things pull at me, his advice is also of simple quality: pause everything. His words, not mine. Yet, his opinions are my actions.
I take heed in their wisdom and agree. Sometimes it is alright to take a step back. To stand in a room full of collected objects - each a witness of our characters, our unfulfilled wishes to be, our truest self, and say ‘it’s okay, I cannot be everything.”
Isn’t that wonderful?
