12:40 am
I'm out here, listening to all the manmade noises, at 12:40 a.m, on the second Friday in a row. Why does the city of Pittsburgh think it is okay to get started on roadwork at this hour? The roommate tells me they start it up at 10 pm every weekend, at which time they shut down the tunnel and wreak general havoc on Swissvale traffic through Sunday night. My ideal, quiet little neighborhood is taking on some new qualities I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with, as the approach of the summer months and good weather becomes a reality at last.
"There are two seasons in Pittsburgh," she tells me, "winter and construction." Damn.
Still, I don't mind the dark, even with all the noise. The half-moon above the houses off to the right has an otherwordly sheen all around it. The air smells cool, fresh, the grass has sprouted up everywhere in my backyard, apparent in the slivers and flashes of light that stream outward from our dining room window. Even with all the traffic noises, there is more a sense of peace out here at night than even on the quietest sun-drenched day (not that we have many of those in perpetually overcast Pittsburgh). There is a stillness out here in the nighttime hours that is near-impossible to locate during summer afternoons.
The still-broken backyard light does its thing, flickering on and off on a whim, each time I turn my head or move my pen too much. It is still a bother, but even that indecisive lantern cannot ruin my good mood. I am out here for the first time in several weeks, and I have missed this stillness in my life.
Today, a friend wrote an email to me, complaining of a camping trip with friends that had gone sour for her once she realized that said friends weren't really there to experience any kind of nature or stillness, but just to tell stories around the fire and drink. These activities have their place in our world, too--but when a gal needs a good dose of silence, some thinking time (or mind-wandering time, as the case may be), no amount of chatter and fun is going to fill that gap.
I think of my own recently-busy life, busy enough that I've been prevented from entering the backyard for any length of time. Long hours of data entry in a hot room and the whining of children who are not getting their way, though separately manageable and representative of an off-day rather than the reality of the everyday grind, may nevertheless compound themselves into one very long workday. These things, taken together, have a way of lessening one's will to work hard in the off-hours on various life projects,. backyard blogs included.
It is true that something has felt vaguely amiss to me these days, a bit askew, despite the happiness I feel toward my living space and the things I have been devoting my life to this past year. Most recently, it has felt as though no amount of throwing myself into my work has been able to fix the proverbial leak. Could it be that the thing I've been putting off because I "don't have time"--time to sit and contemplate things--is the very thing that will mend me, that will give my days more meaning, and bring a sense of rightness to my world? That the pieces will fall into place, once I do this one solitary thing? I can't confirm or deny the answer just yet, but I have my suspicions that I have been missing more than just my "backyard time."
I am convinced that brain and body know when one is neglecting things, and make their displeasure known in all the little ways--the lack of concentration and drive to work; the tiredness that steeps itself in the muscles and in the bones; the frustration of feeling for no particular reason and contrary to all logic, that the work one has done in the day has not made a bit of difference, that it is not one's "real work" (never mind that whatever "real work" might mean still remains a mystery); the restlessness one feels before bed, as though there were some cosmic task that needed doing, but that the real logistical specificities of this task, whetever it may be, are beyond her reach. Even when one knows that the real solution lies in becoming more aware of one's surorundings, of becoming more present in every waking moment, it would seem to her that this reality cannot be felt, just yet, until some decisive action has been taken.
To make things more confusing, though no less powerful over one's life, these symptoms do not come all at once as they might with some kind of diagnosable illness, nor is the person affected by them always aware of their effects. They are temporary, and sporadic, and situational, but even so, they require something to be done by the person residing in this headspace. They are the marks, I am often convinced, of living one's days with too much quickness, and too little awareness--the certain signs of of inhabiting a world that is moving too quickly to encourage a person to slow down and sit out a few laps.
My newly long days at work and my decision to take on a lot of extra projects in the past few months (three, to be exact) has left some part of me numb and fighting for balance. And so I reach for it, in the stillness of the night sky, with no distractions to lure my attention away. Maybe it's the age of the internet, or maybe it's just a quirk of my own personality, that compels me to seek this thing out when most seem content to talk their way through a campfire night these days.
But whatever the reason, I need a time-out, like a child who has been surrounded by too many stimuli and becomes craky and manic in the process. I am no longer afraid or ashamed to take it. And what wonders twenty minutes under the cover of darkness can do for a restless soul, perched as she may be beneath the half-moon and its halo, the silhouettes of branches, the secrets and mysteries of the night sky.
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